Looking on my baby this morning I am reminded of the time we have come through in reaching this day. I am reminded of those who have helped us with a smile and I am reminded of those who have lent a helping hand.
A gratitude journal. A writing partner. A constructive critic. A head above the waters mentor. A discerning eye. A sounding board for ideas. A fair witness. A practical enthusiasm. A diviners’ rod. A broken in pair of shoes. An attentive child.
Point of reference. The pleeched wall of an entertaining estate. Many emboldened Sunsets of the welltrodden floor. The Linden glam of trepidatious children making out skirts in the surrender of conceits unto the acquaint with the elder. Whiles and fret. In the decisions of necessary amends.
A garland by the spin. Eloquent hand me downs of the honor and the thumb. Green and hopeful of the bounty on the gate of the festal host at the evening’s door. With exhibits of extension. All repeating to each other the signs. A pressure spot. The arm and Armada. Brings high upon the swollen sea.
High and tight. Drawn cover of rubbing paper. The sand on the smooth talking tourney. A step out for the fillybuster. Can’t have to man window breaks in the glam watermelon sugar. Gumballs, edibles, and trout farms. Woody the woodpeck. Zippy, puppy, poppy, puppy, love.
The rye discerner and her swaddles of duck. A ferning gate by the riposte of a striding cart and setti on the washboard streaming thrawl. Got to get to the church on time. Somebody call a doctor. The limbic creation test splits the hide of the soft cream. Venus in wiles. Sporting a riffy for the bag.
The conjuration catapults a lacey conscience. There are the remove and the hand me down. Saltwater strag and the knotty pine is in the river bed. With all the confluence of little Bitty bleak water lulls of current and lapping tide.
To the quick with ye wallowing toads. Throat beck great leaps of the fatted calf. Run amuck you gals of the leathern boot. There are a bang and a bulk to the bulwarks now. These stevedore cutthroats have quit the ruckus all right. Sitting on cot and floor. With arms of Summer closing fast. The seaside shanty has glibbed it’s freshet and it’s languid pulse too.
With a righteous look ahead the exit sign leers frequent. The parade has not a rears to hidder it’s camp away. No this joke has too few faces to recognize appropriate changes. One between the other, as is, and should always be.
Personal Writings 