The fancy things I like are nine hundred count sheets. Tea cups with matching saucers. And the things I love that aren’t fancy at all: old aprons and hankies. Dirt roads and dirt floors. Forsythia bushes, hardback books of poetry. And I like other things less than those but still; the sticky remains at the bottom of the cherry cobbler dish. The way cats sometimes run sideways. The presence of a rainbow in a puddle of oil. Jelly jars. Pine needles. Wash on a line. The tick-tock of clocks, the blue of the neon sign outside an old motel still open. The fact that there is an old motel still open. ❤
tornadoday 