Black coffee, green clover, paper white blooms.
Morning writing. Afternoon naps.
House slippers. Cozy nooks, nubby blankets, and poetry,
So much poetry.
Football season. Football weather.
Hot baths. Red wine. Soft beds.
Pancake breakfasts with my girls. Bedtime reading with my boys.
A place to call home,
With money enough for travel and books and to spend a wee bit on décor.
The smell of gardenias reminds me of grandma.
Cardinals in shrubbery remind me of dad.
As does lichen on tree trunks
And moss on an old stump.
Hawks riding thermals,
And white tailed deer,
Bounding through underbrush with leaves crackling.
Pine straw underfoot.
The sun on my shoulders
A sliver of moon
The liquid of midnight
The stories of stars
Also the pale pink of dawn,
The mist of drizzle
Dust motes dancing in golden hour currents.
All hours. All times.
Dandelion fluff, eyelash wishes, butterfly kisses.
Ladybugs that light on screen doors,
Lightning bugs at dusk
Praying mantis angles,
Black widow curves
The texture of blackberries,
The perfume of raspberries,
The denseness of gingerbread,
An avocado’s flesh.
Salted caramel everything.
And you. I. Love. You.
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