I love this picture so much! John suggested it would be a good author picture if I did another book (which I do not have in contemplation.) I probably will make it my profile picture on Facebook. It seems appropriate now that I'm an octogenarian.
Good grief. The following sonnet was in my mind yesterday. . . though I don't feel as gloomy as the Bard evidently did.
That time of year thou may'st in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day,As after sunset fadeth in the West,Which by-and-by black night doth take away,Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fireThat on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed whereon it must expireConsum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
