Just Like Tom Thumb's Purples

I’m way past blues. My words have all escaped, slipped out the door and into the woods, climbed the trees and been carried away by the pine siskins to nests so high I haven’t a chance at getting them back again. They're cozy in those nests. I’ve lost the knack to coax them down to this cold, blank screen.

Brown-Eyed Word

I’m mixing more than metaphors these days, as this raddled brain of mine plays its little tricks on me. When I knit, I tell folks about the easy “recipe” I’ve been following. When the sun goes down, I ask hubby if I should turn on the lights on the camp deck that are shaped like ice cream cones, except I call them “pine cones”. I call pencils “crayons” and blankets are “sheets”, close, but no cigar. Tough to write much of anything when my words are mixed up like this.