Tomorrow I will have a recipe for you, photos from meeting Baby Bubble, seeing Mal (short for Mallard, aka my brother who is now a father) and Bubbles , and a proper post. But I am absolutely out of spoons right now.
Have some poetry I wrote thirteen years ago under the cut.
First Breath
Written under a penname.
In a garden that has been sleeping through the winter
sits gathering of buds,
waiting patiently for the first breath of spring
to hint of its arrival and at that first breath,
rosebushes will burst from many dark shrubs
to infinite rose-covered masterpieces.
The morning glories will spread their blossoms
to the dew coated dawn, as the daisies
lift their sleepy heads from bud to beauty in the spring air.
Robins will lift scarlet throats
in hearty melody to wake
the Queen Anne’s’ lace from its royal bed
and blue jays again lend their sapphire wings
to fan the dainty clover that is scattered
on the grass with the cheerful dandelions.
Newly-born butterflies will wing softly and gently
from apple blossom to apple blossom,
their beauty only adding to the magnificence
that is Spring.
Postmark Wonderland 