I love this time of year. Although these beautiful little blossoms leave us sniffling, coughing, and scratching our eyes, I find their presence so comforting. Fields bathed in white, clumps of soft cotton laying by the roadside weaving trails to the local gins, and fields freckled by gigantic blocks of freshly picked cotton are home to me. I find even the slightest consistency so comforting. This life can be fraught with mystery and uncertainty, and the predictability of harvest adds a certain cadence to the chaos.
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