This is (possibly) the last in a series of posts entitled Conflicted, which began with this:
segued to this:
went kicking and screaming to this:
and now may wrap up with this:
So, someone's thinning a bit, I see. Turned too soon did we?
Give me a break. It's early yet. I'm still unfolding.
At least those squirrels finally skedaddled. Horrible, messy things.
The kids are back on the playground. I like that.
Winter gets awfully quiet.
But now we have all these days to soak up the sun, listen in on the conversations in the carpool line, and grow.
We are a poem lovely.
You write that?
Nope. Joyce Kilmer. East coast guy. Died in World War I.
I'm thinking of composing some original verse this summer myself.
Composting, more like it.
Why wait for good weather? Anyone who turns scarlet as well as you do must have mad poetic skills.
A tree divided
into crimson and green