“Write for 10 minutes about what is running through a husband-to-be’s head while his wife-to-be is walking down the aisle to where he stands.”
Is that the music changing?
Yes, it is.
She told me to count to give after the music changed and then to turn around to look at her.
“The biggest lie anyone told you”
“Next time it won’t be the same old song and dance…”
And I fell for it.
“Write a poem about a tomato”
Round and ever blushing
It sits there, poised and stoic
Still and never rushing
A patience near heroic.
It wears a dark green hat
Its attachment to the vine
The one on which it sat
Oh that tomato, mine.
In a salad it will go
With some lettuce and some cheese
Perhaps some avocado
Have some if you so please!
“Your favourite tree”
Outside the living room window of the house I grew up in, there is a large, majestic magnolia tree.
It sits, about as tall as the house, if not taller, and is clad year-round in big, thick leaves of a deep green shade. And when it flowers, it provides huge creamy white blossoms that smell delightful. It’s one of the scents I associate with home. Each bloom was big enough fill one of the pewter bowls my Mom used for flowers, poised, elegant.
“The president’s personal to-do list”
I realize that this list would be completely different had I done it three months ago. And while there may be many presidents in the world, I feel drawn to trying to outline what the to-do list of one in particular might look like. Read More
“Describe in detail an every day object – a piece of fruit, a water bottle, or your beat-up old wallet”
The teacup sat neatly on the kitchen table, catching the midmorning light and holding it warmly. Like many teacups of its time, it was small and quaint, and had a small handle that would only barely allow two slender fingers to pass through. It had a pattern of pale pink roses linked together across the surface, meeting, but not touching, at the curved, statuesque handle. The roses were accompanied by forest green vines that contrasted against the pale cream background engulfing the entire cup, including its interior. On the inside of the cup, where we usually expect nothing but the uniform lack of colour, there was a tiny butterfly painted quaintly in shades of purple, like an artist’s signature.
It once held the company of a saucer, this teacup. Alas, in an unfortunate incident that also left the smallest of chips on our cup’s lip, it was gone. Thus, our cup sits in solitary quietude, absorbing the midmorning sunshine and waiting to fulfill its purpose.
People marching, mesmerized, all moving in the same direction, stepping at the same pace.
Corralled by banners and observers that delineate the path the marchers must follow.
Slow progress, allowing the audience to carefully absorb the celebration or the protest of those passing by.
A chant? Perhaps. Starting at the front and rippling across the procession, sometimes overflowing the boundaries and taken on by those watching intently, wanting to belong to the movement in some way.
The colours they wear have been selected specially for the day. Each garment, each symbol, each slogan representing key parts of their message. Multicoloured and multilingual pride in what they stand for. Well, walk for.
The leaders reach the end of the mapped route. Like a river unleashed into the ocean, the line collapses and disperses, spreading people outwards without a concrete sense of finality. Leaving the marchers wondering whether they should go home or circle back and start over again at the beginning.