my hubby hates that bright, fire engine red door and threatens often to paint over it.
my finished journal pages
- every year i pick a funny, usually feathery writing pen to journal with.
my little ditty of a poem 'she' wrote as she pondered.
maybe my journal name will be 'she' bc isn't it after all all about me?
as she came to my door i heard her say "i believe"
in years of wear faded away
in freedom's flag unfurled
in Christmas Spirit all year thru
in red, hot passion to create
in growing rocks in blue small pots
in the sun's dancing rays flickering thru the window
bringing great delight.
that's what i believe