Warmth

I miss them, my daughters when they were young. Reading The Hobbit in wintertime, snuggled in close, bodies and fire keeping us warm, rewarded with their pleas . . .  just one more page. I've nearly forgotten my reluctance to pick up the book in the first place.

I don't remember being read to, but when I was sick, my mother sang lullabies while tucking me deep under the covers, only my nose and ears sticking out. I remember the melodies, but not the words.

old friends—
I place more wood
on the campfire

Published in Modern Haiku