We'd wake up, baby Abigail would be crawling into bed with us at a late hour because a storm would be taking over the skies. Abigail isn't afraid of storms, oh no, neither are either of us. We, as a family would love storms and would lie awake together in our big bed with comfy sheets and comforters and pillows and describe the sounds and looks of the storm. She'd only be very young but she'd have an immense vocabulary because she was born to a writer and someone who is much smarter than anyone else I have ever met. She'd have her little golden ringlets in a tight mess beautifully and gracefully falling over in front of her marvelously blue-green eyes with hazel sparks igniting throughout them. Her freckles, which dazzled every inch of her from the bridge of her nose to her legs would look so beautiful on her lighter complexion. We'd have no trouble defining the storm because we'd be describing our life together, as a family. Strong, electrifying, and encouraging.
YOU ARE READING
emotions
Poetryemotions: natural instinctive states of mind deriving from one's circumstances, mood, or relationships with others. I express these instinctive states through my strung together words of poetry.
