We had big plans to spend another day outdoors but spring decided to lean back to winter, so our excursions were limited to brisk walks. Still, we enjoyed the sun room and the blocks and boomer’s protests at the people walking by our windows.
It was an ordinary day. Nothing of note; except that on those kinds of days, everything is: the way the sun patterns ‘cross the dusty floor, bean’s gaze of concentration, a tiny paw peaking out from a blanket strewn over a napping pup. That feeling of relief and love as the door opens to welcome home the man who makes this life possible.
It is from these perfectly ordinary days that poetry is born. The question is: will I find it? Or do I yearn only for those cheap adventure novels?
No, no. I am content in my verse.