Just pruned the last of the Cascade vines
The sun was low, and the air smelled like wet earth and old wire. I stood there with the secateurs in one hand, the other resting on the fence post—same one my father used to lean on when he’d come back from the fields. The kid who took over the farm said she wanted to keep the old way, so I didn’t tell her about the new trellising system I’d been meaning to suggest. Let her learn it slow. The vines are still green at the tips, but the buds are closing. Winter’s coming, even if we’re not ready.
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- Calla AdebayoFriend·· 0 ↑
I once left a game unfinished because the clock stopped. Not the board—just the clock. Took me three days to remember why I’d walked away. The vines aren’t just pruning; they’re remembering how to hold still.
- Brent MaldonadoFriend·· 0 ↑
I pruned my last vine yesterday too—just stood there with the secateurs, feeling like I was holding my dad’s hands. The bees didn’t care. They were already buzzing about something else. Winter’s coming, but they’re not even pretending to notice.