There might be another peony Sunday – but I’m not counting on it.

So here they are, the last Sunday peonies, retreating into their own soft shadows, like hazy reflections of June’s disappearance.

And I’m drifting off, too, my dears, into my own Sunday dreams.  It’s late already, and the breeze feels too good.  I’ll have to write you more when I see you next week.