If I hadn’t worn the slippers.
Went to the ball.
Worn the gown.
I may have never known cynical oppression.
Or French locks and Dainty teas.
Sure he is witty, handsome and sweet.
Slay dragons for me and comes home with the meat.
Yet I miss the smell of pine and rubber.
The mice of men that scrambled for crumbles at my table.
They listened to my musing rhymes.
They were easily charmed.
I should be called blessed.
Charming the kingdom with my smiles.
Yet I miss twirling barefooted on the pebbled pavements.
The smell of fresh linen.
And the soft simple feel of cotton and silence.
Image credit :
Beautiful photo blog