Bouquet

I only just noticed that these photos have distinct color palettes. I know why--I adjusted the hue and saturation on the second one--but I didn't realize they were so noticeably different. I guess it bothers me a little bit, but not much. Not enough that I won't post them together.

I wrote two sonnets last night--one more than I needed to, which is good because I'm gonna go straight to bed after posting this. Here's the first poem from yesterday:

Fantasy

Gingersnap tea and a fall-colored quilt.
I am made of red wool and hot water.
My mittens are soft. The ground doesn't tilt.
Have you ever held a rabbit's daughter?

It's not bad to build a story for yourself,
illustrating your mind with your own mind.
Cooking-fire stars, fairies, and mental health:
nothing to make up that you cannot find.

I'm like logs on the mulch. Drip-dropping leaves.
Careful suburban backyard carpet dirt.
Can I build a castle that I believe
on a pre-shaken place that always hurts?

Wonderment and self-doubt: both marvelous,
arising from my core of curious.