Child Mother

Lying on my back, the warm sun blanketing, I watched the cloud stacks drift, breezily blown across the bluest skies, imagining, dreaming . . . Dangling from my lips, sweet honeysuckle straws dripped nectar candy, delicious extract for flavoring dreams, visions of the joys to come when I was older grown, reveries of life and love and children of my own. Beneath the apple tree, in spring pink blossom carpeted, I laid out the charming rooms that framed a happy home. The hollyhocks lent their blooms for babies hankie-swaddled and clothed in petal gowns of white and pink. My flower-children, plump and fragrant skinned, rocked in cradles strung between the branches, were lulled to sleep with tender lullabies. The happy days of childhood passed, and I was suddenly grown with tiny babies of my own, sweeter far than any flower known. The kisses that I gave to them were answered, returned to me, from lips like rose buds formed perfumed with baby breaths, fragrant and warm. The childhood dream that I held dear I treasured year after year until I found it realized, reflected in my babies' eyes. Copyright, August 16, 2015 Faye Lanham Gibson