Between Seasons
If you stand on a Finger Lakes hillside in late November, you’ll see the vineyards in their most honest state. The fruit is long gone, the leaves have fallen, and what remains are rows of twisting grapevines—dark, gnarled, and exposed. They run like quiet lines across the slope, almost like a page waiting for the…
November’s Threshold
The day has been a kaleidoscope of change—sun streaking through a broken blanket of clouds, then steel-gray skies that press low upon the drumland ridges, then wild pea-sized hail dancing across the porch steps. Rain blows sideways. Then, a clearing. Sun returns briefly, almost shy. And now—snow rests its first crystalline lace across the still-green…
When the Seasons Pull at the Heart
It is the peak of autumn here in the Finger Lakes. The maples — faithful companions since childhood, whose seedlings we once clipped to our noses in laughter, whose leafy canopies sheltered us through the dog days of summer — now stand transformed. Their limbs hold a painter’s palette of fiery hues: embers of red,…
In My Words 