002. Entering A Long Farm Lane

From 104. Entering a Long Farm Lane. Inspired by Whitman’s long run-on sentence for this week, I wrote one of my own. Take a deep breath before reading on. 

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My favorite morning routine, if the kids have been properly fed or at the very least they have chosen something on a plate or a bowl to start their day, is to first find my coffee cup abandoned somewhere in the house when a child asked something of me, as they are prone to do, cold now the coffee is, requiring a quick 30 second button reheat in the microwave because steam hot swirls is part of the routine, after which I then take that cup and my bare feet through the screen door, carefully latching it so as to not alert the children to my exit, and I walk passed the flower boxes begging for a drink, down the weathered wood steps, remembering to step around the one board that pops up at the side, then down the concrete path where I immediately must push my way through the two bushes planted many years and feet apart but that always become lovers again by midsummer, stretching their arms wide like two ladies on a lounge chair by the pool, overcrowding the path so much that the Baptisia arms of one lady tickle my legs with her gentle vine leaves and the scent of the black Bughane plant from the other lady perfumes the air when I disturb it’s fluffy white candlestick flowers, making the air smell like Caroline’s birthday, and finally flummoxing the bumblebees that have beaten my to the garden with a gentle “well it’s about time you arrived” whisper that is supposed to be a warning but sounds more like “good morning.”