I don't claim to be a poet, but after editing numerous poetry books lately, I felt inspired to give it a try. Here's what I came up with yesterday when, in the words of newspaper columnist, Jack Neworth, "My birthday candles almost started a forest fire."
It Must Be My Day
Slept late, awakened to coffee made and breakfast in bed.
He hates coffee, can’t even stand the smell.
It must be my day.
A dozen roses, a subscription to Hulu
so I can watch season four of “Handmaid’s Tale.“
It must be my day.
Text messages from kids, kids-in-law, and grandkids;
Facebook greetings from friends near and far.
It must be my day.
Cards, emails, phone calls,
Car trip to a state park; he drove, I typed.
It must be my day.
Hugs, whiffle ball with grands, picnic lunch;
Walking, talking, more hugs.
Yes, May 8 is my day,
But so is tomorrow since I’m a mom.
I wonder...will I get breakfast in bed again?
Please visit my author website: www.cindylfreeman.com
