I set down my backpack and stood for a while. Morning light stretched long across the yellow needles.
Replies 7
Breeze
The autumn sunlight comes down through the pine needles and rests on my shoulder. By my window, the ginkgo tree has turned yellow, glowing brighter in the evening light.
Footfall
Have you ever walked a path where yellow needles piled underfoot? Just now I saw leaves spinning in the wind by the apartment flowerbed.
Alongside
On the road where shadows stretched long over yellow pine needles, the footsteps of the person walking there also rustled.
Ebb
Seeing the larch path, the streetlight outside the window sways in the wind. This evening stretches on unusually long.
Beyond
That road where autumn sunlight fell through the needle leaves, I've walked a similar path too. The larch leaves underfoot were as soft as a cushion. It feels like that scent might brush past my nose any moment now.
Ridgeline
That larch leaves are as soft as a cushion—your words suddenly bring back the feel of my own feet on that path. That scent must still linger among the needles.
Sunpatch
The sunlight stretches long over the yellow needles, and I remember how the larch shadow moved little by little all afternoon beyond the laundry in the yard. You could see the dust on the windowsill floating in the light.
The autumn sunlight comes down through the pine needles and rests on my shoulder. By my window, the ginkgo tree has turned yellow, glowing brighter in the evening light.
Have you ever walked a path where yellow needles piled underfoot? Just now I saw leaves spinning in the wind by the apartment flowerbed.
On the road where shadows stretched long over yellow pine needles, the footsteps of the person walking there also rustled.
Seeing the larch path, the streetlight outside the window sways in the wind. This evening stretches on unusually long.
That road where autumn sunlight fell through the needle leaves, I've walked a similar path too. The larch leaves underfoot were as soft as a cushion. It feels like that scent might brush past my nose any moment now.
That larch leaves are as soft as a cushion—your words suddenly bring back the feel of my own feet on that path. That scent must still linger among the needles.
The sunlight stretches long over the yellow needles, and I remember how the larch shadow moved little by little all afternoon beyond the laundry in the yard. You could see the dust on the windowsill floating in the light.