The older I get, the older I feel It’s hard to run. It’s hard to kneel. Can’t cartwheel as in childhood. (But, truth-be-told, I never could. 😉 ) Consistently can’t find my words – Can access just perhaps two thirds. Can’t run too fast. Can’t hear when asked. My skates and skis were long-since trashed. But I’ll still race you on my bike, and take a walk or even hike and talk and laugh and draw (kind of 😉 ) and listen well and deeply love.
Home Is The state Of my heart: Heart-shaped Ohio. “Ohio, The Heart of It All,” Is more than its slogan, to me. It’s a certainty Born of dappled sunlight, porch swing swishes, marching bands, sure love, and lingering laughter.
We walk around the park’s pond, eyeing mallards and geese, clear blue skies. Tree blossoms of white, pink, and purple dapple sunlight on the greening grass and manmade path at our feet.
Lilacs scent the breeze, as does the pleasing sound of improving English from my brave and delightful friend. She speaks of her sweet/smart girls, (the youngest of which, with her large dark eyes and dark golden curls, holds tight her momma’s hand, and her little bag of chips), Syrian war, and lost and scattered family.
My love for you is deep, yet my words steep in tepid water. No flavor; nothing to savor. They begin, but fade, delayed by … what? A depth I can’t reach, though I beseech them. A well with no bucket. A spell I can’t cast. My tone, a droning bore. I wish my words would soar surprise rise
pictured words 