If You Like

Muddling through.

With a soup, and

with a scone.

A lentil soup, and

a blueberry scone.

Blue fingertips, and

floured shoes.

A nest of dirty measuring spoons, and

a nest of dirty bowls.

Lukewarm water, and

a damp towel.

I hate wet towels.

A book open, and

a ribbon strewn.

A recipe found, and

no recipe to be found.

This feels right, and

I am seized. A moment ago my mind was debating. A hesitation of will. To follow through and go with the flow. Sometimes the retreat is necessary. I find myself enabled.

Self medicating with thoughts of meals, and 

coffees, and

cobbles.

Worrying, not.

Not a care.

To sustain this,

it would be bliss.