long, hot showers

watching the night sky

eating the very top layer of peanut butter 

from the jar

dancing like a fool when you think no one can see you

the smell of the old, wool blanket 

at the end of the bed

falling asleep on the porch in the summer

after watching the stars to the cicada churrs 

running barefoot in the middle of a rainstorm

piling all three little ones onto your small twin bed 

telling them stories and listening to their dreams  

watching the sun rise

the smell of cooking celery and mushrooms 

of the soup your mother always makes on special days

drawing on the walls

making the broken things whole again

letting the wind mess your hair and never trying to fix it

falling on your rock-hard bed after the longest night ever

watching the wind caress the treetops 

the color yellow

never making your bed 

learning to trust and relax again

having someone ask and care how you're really doing

corny romantic comedies that should make your eyes roll

but really just make you wish true love was real 

snuggling into the old chair by the fire on frozen, grey days

the smell of springtime 

unexpected acts of kindness

and the soft light from candles on the windowsill. 

These are my guilty pleasures. Judge not.







This poem is about: 
My family
Our world


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