"Who wants eggs with their pancakes?" (silence)
"Who wants hugs with their kisses?"
faint answers of "me" from distant rooms
suddenly rising to a thunder of feet on hard wood that
rumbles beneath the echoing choir of children's voices
"me", "me", "me"...
soon I'm drowning in a tidal wave of children
all arms and bodies as I'm tackled with love
I woke this morning, buried under layers
of sheets
quilts
eiderdown
Slow to resurrect myself from my warm burrow
only to layer again under
long-johns
flannel pants
fleece top
snow pants
hat
scarf
gloves
boots
Again I step out of the warm
into the cold
The world has been transformed again by snow and wind
so different from the summer version of these views
frozen pond,
blown clean as the field
snow drifts...
layers of powder,
compacted and piled
blanketing the earth
handsome says, the snow of the entire county blows across these fields and dumps on the edge of our drive
I'm cold
and sweating
under all my coverings
frozen fingers and nose
Inside again
I shuck and peel
I'm melting down to my wool socks
faster than the snow on my boots
The smell of bacon sweeps over me
"big breakfast", oh, I have a sweet man
eggs,
bacon,
pancakes,
grits...
I love my grits with salt, pepper,
and butter!
(The northerner I married and his brood doctor their hominy with cinnamon and sugar. Just doesn't seem right.)
a banquet for my soul.
"You prepare a table before me..."
Thank You, Lord.
(We opened the last jar of maple syrup this morning. We were away last March; so we weren't able to tap and boil in 2011. Like Elijah's oil, amazingly, our last batch has not run-out.)
The tastes, the smells, the views,
The sounds of my favorite voices,...
Breakfast on fine china...
we are rich.
I am alive.
I am blessed.
Simple treasures, wondrous pleasures.
It is almost too much to take in.
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