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
Beautiful
ReplyDeleteLove it! Every day is your day!
ReplyDelete...and I'm thankful for each and every day! Thanks for responding.
DeleteVery cool. Our lives are poems waiting to be written and spoken in poetry. Your day is a great stanza in the life of Cindy.
ReplyDelete"Our lives are poems waiting to be written and spoken in poetry." I love this this, Cyrus! Your comment is poetry.
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