I crave light. I walk around the house, opening windows, doors, curtains, always opening. Washing the walls with lucent morning light, or the burnished glow of four o'clock, or pre-dusk's blushing patina.
As autumn whittles down the days, light becomes all the more precious. And I hoard it, gather it up in bouquets so pungent I can breathe in the memory of it all winter long.