1/3/18
Dewy morning air.
The smell of grass.
Breakfast cooking on a saturday morning.
Two yellow daisies paced in a transparent blue vase on the table.
The sun is up, fresh new light pours brilliantly into the windows.
You draw back the curtain, It will be alright.
YOU ARE READING
every rosebush has its thorns
Poetrymy life, told through a series of poems, a cautionary tale with a happy ending
