I Would Have, a Requiem

I     would have held her closer,

W   hispered softly into her hair,
O    pened more doors, and
U    pheld every promise.
L    onger I would have spoken of my love for her if only I had known that my
D    ays with her were counted.

H    eaven sent me an angel only to take her back. And now,
A    lone I am left to
V    ow to my regretting heart that if only I had known,
E    ach seconds of ours was passing,

I would have.

I Can't

I want to go back.


I want to proudly wear a dandelion chain across my forehead.

I want to skip over the foot bridge that Johnson's creek trickles under.

I want to catch more sunbeams and freckles on my face than ever before.


I miss the sound of the ice cream truck in July, and the little, blue house on Maple.

I miss Grammy's canned peaches and catching wooly-boogers in the field.

I miss the taste of cotton candy on my tongue and the softness of footie pajamas.


I don't want to grow old.

I want to go back, but,


I can't.

The Girl I Used to Be

    Threading daisy chains in the mowed field on a bale of hay sitting.

    Craning on the front porch painting my toes just imagining.

    Taking a long stroll behind the cabins with the stars and wondering.

    Hoping to find him before it was too late just wishing.

    Knowing I had a long time but it was worth it waiting.

   

   


 

   

So the journey begins

     Every book has an opening chapter, and usually about two paragraphs in I am able to tell if I'm interested or not. I am the perpetual "read the end first" kind of person, and I've stopped trying to deny it. Those who know me best know that I want to know the end of everything before I invest my time. Unfortunately, I cannot check to see how the end of this blog will be (hopefully with me unharmed, alive and well in good ol' Trout-town USA); so, there is nothing left for me to do than to press on and find my way.
     I have already attempted this once, and it didn't end so well. In fact, I think the skeleton of my previous blog is floating out in the ether somewhere, but I don't remember my username and password so I am starting afresh.
     So let the journey begin . . .