January 20, 2012

Today the real me browsed in a second-hand book store, sipped on gourmet root beer, and found the perfect red- and blue- striped espadrilles in a magazine ad.

January 17, 2012

For the first time this week, my husband smiles with his eyes. I will have to bake more sugar-free chocolate cupcakes.

January 12, 2012

We took the wreath down from the front door and unwound the burgundy garland from the terrace railing, but the uneven stack of Christmas cards will remain on the living room bookcase.

January 10, 2012

Primary results from my home state of New Hampshire pour in over Texas Public Radio. Tomorrow, Granite State diners and shopping malls will echo, bereft of the incessant handshaking and forced smiles.

January 9, 2012

A brown catnip mouse, completely spent, lies next to our cat, who reluctantly nods off in my husband's favorite soft chair.

January 6, 2012

Cedar fever: everywhere I look, the headache follows.
Seated above my left eyebrow, it mocks my every attempt at writing.

January 5, 2012

Ghost-white refrigerator, covered with yellowed newspaper clippings and souvenir magnets, hums monotonously as I lose the battle to stay awake and write one more article.

January 4, 2012

Our cat Lucky sleeps with one eye open under the cherry-wood bookcase, pretending not to notice as I bring fresh water.

January 3, 2012

As homemade chicken pot pie bubbles and bakes in our Texas kitchen,
visions of snow-crested New Hampshire afternoons waft from the oven vent.

January 2, 2012

New purple notebook from Christmas:
on the gold-highlighted cover,
a blue peacock fans his yellow and green tail
across lily blossoms and lace.
Inside, purple lines on crisp purple pages await fresh ink
and dog-eared wisdom.

January 1, 2012

Last week's burgundy Christmas garland loosens its sparkling grip on the sun-drenched terrace railing.

Small Stone #9: Tea Break

black tea and cookies:
such peace from fermented leaves
and fat molecules

July 31

From ornamental olive tree outside laundry room: July's lavender snowfall.

July 30

Our black, brown and white cat stretches out under the ceiling fan, dreaming with one eye open.

July 29

An original thought battles cross currents and drought to wash up on an uninhabited page.

July 28

Internet connection temporarily lost -- brain awakens to this moment.

July 27

Computer-red eyes gaze gleefully at the calendar: four more small stones after tonight!!

July 26

Black pepper-flecked country gravy fills mashed potato valleys.

July 25

On the windowsill of my mother's room, our cat stretches in bright evening sunlight.

July 24

The usual patch of light: an imperceptible change nudges us toward fall.