willfully old fashioned.

Look at this. I mean, c’mon. Pockets in a baby sweater. Why?
What’s the point?
He looks up at me, taking a breath, the human bellow.
I am willowing down pattern choices.
The fire catches, I pat the back of my fifth baby,
Clad head to toe in hand wash only woollens.
Just in time I rescue my near burnt bread
It’s daily sponge bubbles at me from the back of the stove.
Trust me, I know how this all looks.
Ridiculous, burdensome, labor intensive.
Know the salt of the earth’s fearsome sting brings
Sweet saturated peace.


Steam still rising from the dinner pot, plates not yet congealed and
Heads are hitting pillows, unaccustomed giddiness of exhaustion I lay claim to.
Running circles around my eyes, cutting a deeper groove than yesterday.
The more of now makes less of tomorrow.

bedtime, it’s just the way it is some nights.
using the Write ALM prompt today