By Maryanna Gabriel
but a straight tree is turned into wood."
Dear Reader,
It seems to me, maybe you don't agree, (just in time, for a rhyme), t'is my observation that the world of men is becoming increasingly callous. With malice. And it's beyond global. The constant barrage of what was once unthinkable is taking a toll on varying microlevels of the day to day (by the way). So I'm changing my focus, and shifting locus, and dealing with it by going potty, rather than knotty. The sun is out, and shifting doubt, what was a slow spring, is now a day with zing. So what do you know, outside I go.
Feeling ever hopeful, I'm quelling my needlings, by putting in seedlings, to little pots, that I have bought. I'm quite sure in so doing, there may be more global peace. Inner peace for sure. The outer peas are coming along nicely. With great effort, I'm limiting myself from the varying social mediums, as well as their tediums. It's making a difference this time away.
Am remembering the days when I used to read, for example, and oh - look, here I am halfway through my book. Or would work on a creative project, bit by bit, and carefully tend it, from beginning until end it. So this is how I'm reclaiming some humanity, (and not resort to profanity), at least within myself and hopefully with others, because sure as Shakespeare, my dear, a strangeness to this tale, doth prevail.
So take heed, what do you know, off to sow, to weed, and grow. There is no need for gloom - the iris is close to bloom. See? The quirk of this perk is a smirk. Making up rhymes helps deal with the times.
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| Iris close to bloom. See? |
Yours very truly and feeling unruly,
Maryanna