Frances De Forrest

For Everything, There is a Time

It was a warm autumn evening, crisp but not cold, dry leaves rustling in the occasional breeze gently filled our ears. In the barn the horses gentle snorts could be heard as they settled into their stalls for the night. As I looked into her deep eyes, the light of the moon softly caressed her silken hair. What wonderful company to have at such a time. We were speaking of things of all seriousness about the meaning of life and the afterlife if one at all.