All those flowers, in every day, are just perfect, without you.
Nevertheless, you would name thier curative gifts, made whole, at source.
All . . .
Daybreaks, welcomed.
Viewpoints, appreciated.
Thirsts, quenched.
Dogs, accompanied.
Appetites, met.
Sighs, exhaled
. . . all.
Every pillow, on each bed, really, quite fine, for me.
Nevertheless, you would know thier happy trajectories, cast around, us.
© Jonathan O’Farrell
March 2017