Staring at my first city-girl vegetable harvest I developed a cure for my headache. It went away, although the actual cure might have been breakfast and two aspirins. I cut into the fruit-debatable vegetable and tasted. The visual evaluation produced low results. Quite ugly. However, the taste demanded that the buds on my tongue to race north to my minimal brain then south to my romantic heart.
My sleepy brain asked, “How could this be?” I planted a sprig of light green roughage and given time, water, and southern heat it metamorphosed into this glorious creation. My heart proclaimed from its hidden parts, “There is a God.”
Another type of vegetation jabs at my writer’s consciousness. Within my creation station my swamp stories grow plentiful Spanish moss. It often houses stinging red bugs which, dear reader, is another story. This morning it blooms into Gray Lace, my fourth book. It’s currently metamorphosing from a parasite to a novel. Given feeble spurts of time and a romantic heart it’ll be a glorious creation.
Enough!
