had the flavor of old bubble gum. Since my second was musical chairs of a prison camp. The only treeline being that of need and deep sea dire depressing tides where smiles broke rules and were not tolerated, where temples of tempers stole cushions from hearts and sex went solo, sadly enough. I had a number of serious sentence fragments when it came to willing. Of course, when love drifts by, you jump on without much choice, like a moving sidewalk that jets toward joy you just can't stop. Dread's designated driver gets drunk and you don't mind much. Old brown boxes of sour fairy tales are overdue library books in the back seat of an old sedan, so you return them shyly and proceed as hummingbirds that respect the flutter of passion's heated wings. Love's hieroglyphics are kin to honeydew: you just sense when the season is right and slit it when the moment strikes. And we did. Touchdowns came so naturally. Umbrellas popping to meet clean rain. by Janet I. Buck |
