The most fun I had, was considering my most beautiful thing: my marriage, yes; our children, yes; our granddaughter, yes… but write a poem that isn’t schmaltzy? No. So what else threads my life?
Every morning, six forty-five, she sits, curled into a corner of the couch, a blue and white cotton kimono wrapped loosely around her. She nurses a white ceramic cup, listens to her husband’s voice. Nestling into her palms, the cup’s curved bottom warms her hands. The coffee’s fragrance wakes her brain, the taste fills her mouth, sings on her tongue, as her husband reads headlines to her, from the B.B.C..
My morning coffee —
the sun rising on my tongue —
pulls clouds from my mind.
Congratulations, Fiona, on your novel. To read about the blogsplash, if you haven’t, visit.