Wood Trim Around Shower

The verses that I keep

While folding clothes and I think you have some mates. You are far, talking on the phone and planning what this afternoon. You laugh, go and come through the house, talking to herself and you're happy. You leave your yard mandarins and is sure to sweep you put as there is sun bags blankets to ventilate the summer days are gone. Meanwhile, think rich dishes for us. Days and days of delicacies. I know.

And I here I hate to make pairs of socks and I get bored looking for what goes with what, I remember small details. What kinds thankless task Silent mothers, no one sees how long it takes! How many socks folded in your life, Mom? What if you did not see all that? And when I say that, piled half-pans, pots, brooms, beds, floors, beds, stews more birthday cakes, fever, aspirin and some tea with honey-dust-shirts, socks.

There is always half there, in the hands of mothers.

As here, now as harmonious pairs and double.

Today I write a poem, but I can not, I get hugs wasteful worn words. How I found for you mom said not a word! And yet these pairs of socks do most prolific than ever, thinking you the verses that I keep, Verses bow stretched and filled with memories redonditos yours.

White with white for example.

and displays the jasmine in your yard, your embroidered linen tablecloths and sheets drying in the open westerly to dilate the air over long heel heel as you travel down the hall flourished, and black to turn it into green black Colombian green you do not like English, is dark. No matches your eyes that shine too. And again with long, long stretch stockings are the road to advance. Winding Road 5 that never learned to love. And that you should love it because it is the path that leads me straight to you. But the hate and fear him, much more to do pairs of socks. So how angry I fear, quickly fold up with par. And again, dyed white with white corn and extend the days you did a cookie on our toes and your kitchen is blonde and ocher color that I like to remember the field. When soybean invaded everything and it was a golden wheat field here and there beyond sorghum sunflowers, grass. You see mom, fold socks, something as mundane and I can not write either a poem, I who write daily.

be a thing of shame for that daughter, who from time to time and that gives me the verses callus keep me.

(I will not be around here for a few days, today is the birthday of my old one - turns 80! - And I'm with her, spoil her as she deserves.

I'm going for my payments)


... and as I am a quemocursi in black bitches, I dedicate the program on Saturday:)