A parsley leaf survived the wash. Soap, hot, cold. Spin, rinse, spin. Scent, fresh, green. As if these were little things.
September 17, 2019
Good Fortune
You say this morning you will write a mountain range;
and then, when evening comes,
a ladybug crawls across your blank white page.
Categories: Everything and Nothing, New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Diaries, Good Fortune, Journals, Ladybugs, Little Things, Parsley, Poems, Poetry, Writing
