The Whisky Blot
Literary Journal
The simple things of life bring me smiles, like the bird house made of wood from an old red barn. It sits atop a garden post holding safe its second hatch—bluebird family-- flashes of sapphire, zipping in and out, feeding their young. The fledglings will soon find their own way into the big sky. As did our daughters. In spring, I sometimes walk the meadow, see sunshine in daisy faces-- their centers innocent, happy, their white petals holding the secret that pre-teen girls pursue by that fanciful plucking-- “He loves me, he loves me not.” I need no daisy petals to tell me what love is. We know each other long and well-- know the simple things that make each other happy. He builds me bird houses, hands me daisies from the meadow. I, too, know what warms his heart, brings us near-- simple things-- a plate of barbeque, a frosty mug of beer. Comments are closed.
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