Week4/Journal writing1
That day was embedded for ever in my recollection. It was in the summer, in those far-off days of the childhood which were replete with something magical and unreal. I was in the kitchen smelled of grandma's pierogies. Tender streams of sun, still warm, not acquiring full strength, shone through the lacy hangings and highlighted a big blue hudrangea. I climbed up an old wooden stool, looked out the window meaning to see somebody from neighbour's children and gaped on. In June, in the summer warm morning white flakes of poplar wool, like snow-flakes, fell down slowly on the ground. The whole yard was snowed under with poplar wool.
That day was embedded for ever in my recollection. It was in the summer, in those far-off days of the childhood which were replete with something magical and unreal. I was in the kitchen smelled of grandma's pierogies. Tender streams of sun, still warm, not acquiring full strength, shone through the lacy hangings and highlighted a big blue hudrangea. I climbed up an old wooden stool, looked out the window meaning to see somebody from neighbour's children and gaped on. In June, in the summer warm morning white flakes of poplar wool, like snow-flakes, fell down slowly on the ground. The whole yard was snowed under with poplar wool.
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