I came home from work today to find these lovely pink Hydrangeas on my kitchen counter, a present from Christina, who resumed her travels this afternoon by heading east.
I am tired today, too tired. It must be all the pollen in the air.
My Mom sent me a quote today that I enjoyed so much, I have to share it with you:
A woman who writes feels too much, those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands weren’t enough;
as if mourners and gossips and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.
From “The Black Art” by Anne Sexton
*sniff!*
And now, I suggest you go ahead on and enjoy the latest writing of her very own from my Mom, Blue Waltz.
[This spacing problem with Blogger is driving me to utter MADNESS! Rest assured I have not lost the ability to know when to add a paragraph break. It's a Blogger glitch. AND A VERY ANNOYING ONE AT THAT.]
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