Sunday.

Mornings with a slight delay and a mild happiness goes somewhere within it. I opened my eyes and felt that a white hope had become a swirling torrent.  Smell of just cooked pancakes took my thoughts away and I dressed my morning grown to join peaceful conversation among the dearest.

I have tried to leap over and go under but still I am just a human being. My morning coffee is always black as a cobbler’s wax and perfume smells like roses. I refuse to wear another lipstick than traffic red and my scarf will always be a messed up nest for the face to find a shelter when a cold comes over.

I don’t quite enjoy the poetry but I have the dignity and bracing position. I am delighted to watch people doing and I care to help. I am one of you, guys.

P.s...Writing has always had a special place in my affections.Everyone has it's own enjoyment, I am glad I have found mine. 

Agnes.