Terrifically Tired

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.

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