A crystal globe reflects the morning light,
splashing greens and blues and purples,
that dance across the sun room floor.
Outside, the nighttime snowfall lines
each dark limb with a frosting of white.
Below the window there’s a picture of Lily, my grand niece,
with cherub-like hands and cheeks the color of rose petals.
By the front walk the retreating snow
Reveals hints of spring as hydrangea sprigs
ready for the new season’s blooms.
I peruse poems on Poetry Soup, written by artists that write to share,
and for the comradery of those, who like them,
find a little more in simple things than most others can see.
I look around and all about me is home
and all of the special things that make it…home.
So, when I ponder the question
“Why do I read and write poetry?”
I have to just -- smile…