[Today'mosaic: smiles and mashed potatoes]
He loves me, he loves me not. That was now her frequent pastime. Plucking fragile petals off her garden daises. Was this what love and trust had come to? A classic determination of personal enquiry?
Weather permitting, she would see him later on this evening, one more time before he set sail to the vast blue yonder.
Turning her face skyward, she sighed. A red moon rides on the humps of the low river hills. She shifted her gaze. At her feet her litter of daisy flowers looked sad, scattered, torn apart for no other reason but insecurity. Oh well she might as well start peeling those potatoes for tonight's late supper.
© gillena cox 2020
You've heard about the Monday Blues well this is Monday WRites (musing on the definition here of rite, as any customary observance or
eg the rite of afternoon tea). Welcome to Monday WRites #255: A Happy Monday to all ❧✿❧
Blog hopping today with
# 89: A-campin' We Did Go
Jazzing it up on Prosery Monday
Prompted by Lillian to include the line a red moon rides on the humps of the low river hills
from Jazz Fantasia by Carl Sandberg
20 JuLY 2016
we are on Camp