The Whisky Blot
Journal of Literature, Poetry, and Haiku
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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