Moods winging (a poem)

By Moristotle

I walked around, I was bouncing.

Birds sang from leafless trees,

old in wisdom, stately, pronouncing.

Snatches of poems wafted in the breeze.

I walked, my legs were barely moving.

Birds cried together, beseechingly,

in trees haggard, drooping, reproving.

Moans banging in my ears troubling me.

Copyright © 2022 by Moristotle

Goines On: Order in the house!

Click image for more vignettes

Goines needed order. He demanded order. He imposed it. The knives and forks and spoons –each in its size classification – taken from the Bosch washer and returned to their slots in their appointed drawers (one including those they’d had since opening their wedding gifts, the other for the latest set of heavier knives, forks, and spoons from Costco within the past decade), carefully behind those to be used next, each fork or spoon or knife to be used in an approximating perfect rotation.