What blessed days of rain have ended in this melancholy light, a window lit by a dying lamp. The strains of a bow, sawing quiet airs, mixes in the downpour and draws me from the storm. An old man is waiting here, in the gloomy hovel, his dirty glasses glimmering in the fire. I have forgotten how the story began, but this morning—the sky’s so clear and the air fresh and my heart satisfied. A dream, a nightmare, or perhaps it all was real, but over; my God, I pray it’s really over. The old man’s given me some food to take along my way, and I thank him and bless him. There is, I wonder, not a king I’ve known more lordly in humility than that peasant by the wayside, nor, I think, music quite matching the strains of his violin. There’s a scent of apples in the air reminding me of home.
Apple Blossoms
Tale Told 