picker of buttercups
And the big bullying daisies
through the field wonderful
with eyes a little sorry
also picking flowers
Friday we left the city cosmpolitan and drove to the mountains, singing praises to childlessness and B&Bs. Since we hadn’t been on a vacation in…ever- at least since we were married, we took the weekend to hike, explore, and rock on the porch like two ancient-as-the-hills senior citizens.
I reveled in mountain laurel and the complexities of a nice creme brulee, while R read Bonhoeffer and splashed in streams. We chanted resounding “NO”s to those impulsing us toward movement, while flaunting our unscheduled and unorganized weekender existence.
We arose early only so as not to miss the quiet intake of breath before dawn.
We tried wines and things stuffed with crab.
Tracing the letters carved in the bannisters of overlooks, we breathed with the rushing of waterfalls.
YES! We cried. You may meet us at our room with wine and cheese!
You may indeed offer us scented bath salts!
A hearty affirmative to those 600-thread-count sheets!
No, thank you, we don’t desire anything during our turn-down service. But thank you for the offer! And the chocolate!
And we will do our best to choke down the gourmet sandwiches and homemade brownies that you prepared in your 100-year-old country kitchen as we view the mountain waterfalls. We promise.
Here’s wishing you a weekend of tumbling hair and bullying daisies. Soon.