sat in an
empty ***
of dry soil,
the wildflowers
have been
singing to me
all afternoon.
warm cups
of coffee
were made
again and
again in
this home
and we
laughed
at words
spoken in
silly ways.
quietly, as
the forks
napped with
the spoons,
the grey-blue
sky burst
into a deep
magenta.
a poem
was made,
and the
neighbour's
dog was
comforted
by a
familiar
face.
as the
butter
slowly,
deliciously
melted in
the pan
in our
small
kitchen,
a very
ordinary
life
went on
to bring
brilliant
joy.
the
wildflowers
sang;
we had
coffee
again.