My glimpses of joy

A chilly evening morphing into the night, Neil Diamond, and a sweaty run.

Trees that have been around long enough to know that exact point in the circle, where perfection meets imperfection. Trees that stand in contrast to perfect lawns, their crowns like the hair of wild children, adding a brush of rebellion to the cosy suburban homes. I have never seen a poem as lovely as a tree.

Hot tea, a gentle household, and quiet thoughts.

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