» Ausencia , el cáncer y yo» , el libro más personal de profesor10demates
Los derechos de autor serán donados integramente a la lucha contra el cáncer infantíl
Primrose wasn’t afraid. “What do you keep?”
Primrose looked up. An old woman was sitting on a mossy log, her lap full of wild onion sprouts. She wore a coat made of stitched-together burlap sacks, and her hair was the color of last autumn’s leaves. seasons in spring
“Hello,” said a voice.
The Keeper pointed. In the mud at Primrose’s feet, tiny green shoots had appeared. Not just grass—crocuses, snowdrops, and the first curled fists of daffodils. Each one, the Keeper explained, was a promise the earth had made last autumn, before it went to sleep. That no matter how long the winter, spring would remember its way home. Primrose wasn’t afraid
She followed a path of melting frost into the woods behind her house. There, she found the creek, which had been a silent strip of ice just yesterday. Now it was chattering, spilling over rocks, carrying tiny green leaves that had fallen from somewhere upstream. Primrose knelt down and dipped a finger in. Cold—but not the bone-cold of winter. A bright, sharp cold, like biting into a green apple. She wore a coat made of stitched-together burlap
Primrose decided to investigate. She put on her mud boots—the ones with the frog on the toe—and stepped outside. The world was noisy in a way it hadn’t been for months. Bees the size of grapes fumbled out of a hollow log, drunk on their first pollen of the year. A robin argued with a squirrel over a twig that would become a nest. Even the fence posts seemed straighter, as if the earth had stretched its back.
Primrose wasn’t afraid. “What do you keep?”
Primrose looked up. An old woman was sitting on a mossy log, her lap full of wild onion sprouts. She wore a coat made of stitched-together burlap sacks, and her hair was the color of last autumn’s leaves.
“Hello,” said a voice.
The Keeper pointed. In the mud at Primrose’s feet, tiny green shoots had appeared. Not just grass—crocuses, snowdrops, and the first curled fists of daffodils. Each one, the Keeper explained, was a promise the earth had made last autumn, before it went to sleep. That no matter how long the winter, spring would remember its way home.
She followed a path of melting frost into the woods behind her house. There, she found the creek, which had been a silent strip of ice just yesterday. Now it was chattering, spilling over rocks, carrying tiny green leaves that had fallen from somewhere upstream. Primrose knelt down and dipped a finger in. Cold—but not the bone-cold of winter. A bright, sharp cold, like biting into a green apple.
Primrose decided to investigate. She put on her mud boots—the ones with the frog on the toe—and stepped outside. The world was noisy in a way it hadn’t been for months. Bees the size of grapes fumbled out of a hollow log, drunk on their first pollen of the year. A robin argued with a squirrel over a twig that would become a nest. Even the fence posts seemed straighter, as if the earth had stretched its back.
» Ausencia , el cáncer y yo» , el libro más personal de profesor10demates
Los derechos de autor serán donados integramente a la lucha contra el cáncer infantíl
Los que sois asiduos a mi blog sabéis que todo nació con youtube, como sé que ya sois unos máquinas con las mates os agradecería que os suscribiérais a mi canal, para poder seguir ayudando al resto de gente a que sean tan buenos como vosotros.
Y activad la campanilla para recibir las notificaciones, que en época de examenes subimos muchos ejercicios clásicos de examen.