Like the rustle of the wind in the leaves, the echos from the heart, home calls from within. The Spirit of a Child. The spirit of a child is a fragile thing. It thrives on freedom, but requires boundaries. But needs the nearness of a parent. The spirit of a child is a fragile thing. And sometimes I wonder why God. Should have entrusted each one. To the care of such rank amateurs. Did He not know we were barely free.

Exploits, adventures, and tragedies of an ordinary woman. I look beyond the horizon of my soul, searching. For connection in the vast wasteland of my being. Restlessness, agitation rule my waking time. Dreams, insomnia tick away the hours until dawn. The tears come suddenly, frequently. They anger me, these unbidden rivulets. I have no right to wallow and complain. I did not lose my hair.

Grandparents give us a heritage of one another, an extended family for sharing memories; that is the greatest legacy they can give. The farmland can be sold; stocks can crash with the market. Cousins to catch crawdads with, or help sell lemonade and bait, that is our richest heritage. Rubenesque woman seeks debonair man to dine with. Wine with, spend quality time with. Answer this ad immediately as I may soon be moving on.

It takes three to a conversation, me, myself and I. To live is the rarest thing in the world. I lay there waiting to hear a voice. Without you and I had no choice. At the thought of falling for your recurring disguise. In I talk with me. Of glitter is surely a delight but the more you blow on it, the more it blinds,.