Monday, February 12, 2018
Some days, I'd as soon be left alone. Other days, walking home on the edge of night, I'm comforted to see that I have neighbors. If they were suddenly gone away, I'd miss their talk when we met on the street. I'd crave the smell of their chimney smoke on the winter air.
I don't hear well enough or see fast enough ever to relish a crowd. Neither would I want to dwell alone in the midst of the earth. There are no stories without people. None to tell or tell about, and none to hear them told.
My little garden is enough for me to answer for, but I'm too curious not to pay attention to my neighbor's plot, and pray her a good yield for her labors