.
Sitting in my van in front of the house where my 14 yo has choir practice, attempting to write poetry...
Blooming dogwoods, and a flock of gorgeous heirloom chickens strutting about the green lawn in front of my windshield laughed at me.
My poem kicked and wriggled and clucked.
So I wrote a riddle instead.
Sitting in my van in front of the house where my 14 yo has choir practice, attempting to write poetry...
Blooming dogwoods, and a flock of gorgeous heirloom chickens strutting about the green lawn in front of my windshield laughed at me.
My poem kicked and wriggled and clucked.
So I wrote a riddle instead.
What Am I?
Bound to birthdays, round to cheer,
bound to the rungs of the dining room chair.
Attached to seat back,
dancing in ceiling-fan currents of air.
Tied to people,
precious people,
I mightn't not always stay there.
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4 comments:
Sounds like a balloon to me!
A balloon!
That was fast:) You both win the amazing prize of the personal satisfaction of being right.
Being right is always gratifying!
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