Never on a Sunday

Sweat, that is.

At least that’s my excuse for not going downstairs to the gym for my daily cardio. I’d rather be writing instead.

Because you see, there’s a poem in my heart that needs expressing this morning. Even if I am the only one to read it, I know it will make a sound in the forest.

What’s your name, little girl?

Is it Sara or Rebecca

or Peggy Sue?

Your hair is just like mommy’s

Not thick, but enough of it

And I hope you like the wavy part.

Your eyes are even greener than mommy’s

And have more gold dust;

You are very, very rich, sweetheart.

Don’t worry about not being tall

We used to say “good things come in small packages”.

Mommy was worried today

When she couldn’t find you in the backyard

But then all she did was call Skippy, and there you were.

Why the tears, darling?

Because it’s raining and you couldn’t play hopscotch outside today.

But you played school instead

And you know how you love being the teacher

Just like Mommy did.

Mommy wishes she knew now what you will be when you grow up

But as your Granny used to sing “Que sera sera”, what will be, will be.

So now it’s time for Mommy to put the book away,

Kiss you goodnight

And remind you to say your prayers.

Yes, you know the one Mommy taught you,

The one she still says every night.

“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

Good-night my precious,

Sweet dreams.”

There is no exercise  better for the heart than reaching down and lifting people up. ~John Andrew Holmes ~


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