After cleaning out my purse,
Litter my bed
Like confetti –
As I lay here with the pup, watching the snow, satisfied with the ending of book I just finished….I feel relaxed and happy.
I’ve posted more on my two blogs in the past few days than I have in the past month.
Oh, this blogging thing…
This way with words…
The way a sentence flows and feels.
The way I shuffle the words to make it right.
The Word Nerd in me, being creative with my punctuation and phrasing, but also wanting to play by the rules of The Grammar Game.
Unwrapping the thoughts inside my head, carefully peeling back what everyone sees on the outside, choosing the right way to share the gift.
Telling the stories.
Preserving the memories.
Reflecting on the experiences.
Seeing the truth spill out on the screen.
Blinking back tears.
Letting out a sigh of relief.
Feeling the smile that stretches clear up into the corners of my eyes.
Oh, this blogging thing….
How can there be no words?
Lying in Life’s Flower Bed
The giant weeds that choke
It’s beyond-words-satisfying to rip them from the roots,
to dig their anchors and claws,
to release the innocent plants they have suffocated.
The smaller weeds….
or are they flowers?
Nestled around the bases of bigger plants,
they try to act casual.
They disguise themselves with cutesy flowers,
Some I leave, give them a chance,
since they appear to be doing no harm.
Others are not so convincing.
Exotic Tiger Lilies,
flamboyant and sneaky,
taunting and teasing,
looking down on the others.
Just another pretty face.
The perennials that have had their chance
and their season to shine.
I cut them back, their dried and withered stalks.
I let them go.
They may or may not return.
They were beautiful, while they lasted.
The Black-eyed Susan’s with their tall, thin stems.
They peek around the mailbox.
Quiet, and somehow bold, at the same time.
The Barberry bush, vibrant and hardy.
A natural lancet.
It pricks my finger
and draws a tiny drop of blood.
A reminder there is no escape.
The random unnamed flower,
in an unlikely and unexpected place,
makes me laugh while it teaches me a lesson.
The Hosta, started out few and scattered,
now filling and overflowing in all directions.
Tiny holes perforate the leaves,
but the damage is undetected from the street.
And, oh, the clovers!
And yet, not a single good luck charm among them.
growing and twisting,
grabbing on to whatever they can.
I know they will not produce fruit this year.
I do not cut them back. I do not snip the vines.
Instead, I let them grow.
I gently guide the vines, wrap them around the arbor’s poles,
and alter their path.
I spend the day in these beds alone,
but not alone.
I am with the ghosts,
and my children.
From this colorful bed
I clearly see my past,
and my future.