What pulls me forward through the dew of earth and mist of morning petulance to wander bag in one hand, catcher in the other, in hope of just a handful shaken from the tree of crabapples, three pears plucked from their lofty grip. The quince, once tossed out for stubborness to soften to the rest are taken now and boiled into submission. And the base of ever-willing peaches ripen every day in harmony to yield to fingers delicate and deft and knowing of their whims.
This shall be the last and best; truly a harvest wine.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Excuse me ma’am, but we need to test that.
Sincerely,
China Food and Drug Association