The guests have arrived and the Chicklet Valentine’s Day Party has officially begun. Clarence was in charge of setting up Holly’s Corn bread treats for an after breakfast snack. Unfortunately, Clarence decided to taste test the corn bread and couldn’t seem to control himself.
When interviewed for The Coop newspaper, he simply chirped, “It was just so delicious, what else could I have done?” Everyone understood his dilemma and a meeting was held where a rule was passed, saying that no one could be in charge of food products alone. At least two beings would have to be present for the set-up.
Everyone felt much better after that. The good news is that Holly made enough corn bread for everyone, so no one will go without a slice, or two.
Dearest Resa, you brilliant super nova, how do I thank you for all the fun and wonderful friendship that we share. This, completely unexpected, blows me away. Thank you my friend and favorite co-conspirator! You are Awesome ❤️
Fae is going to be the emcee for the show. This morning, she was standing on stage, in front of the empty barn, practicing her opening lines. Two of the Stage Craft chicklets said she was wonderful.
Because of the weather forecast, some of the guests will be arriving early, so the Housekeeping Committee is exceptionally busy. All in all, they are on top of things and there are hearts popping up everywhere.
There is little tending to severed leaves detached
by laws of seasons past.
What remains is a collection of treasures stacked
behind a dozing spider, clay pots, a rusty kiln, worn brushes.
Warm breath on sculptor’s bones ease her aching hands
until she is malleable once more.
Bent and shaped into her own likeness
if she is diligent in the Spring she will bloom again.
Translation by Bernd Hutschenreuther
Im Frühling werden wir wieder blühen
Der blaue Himmel hat die kalten grauen Bögen angenommen. Wenig nur neigt er, sich trauernder Düsternis zu ergeben, Wir fallen von den Bäumen, getrieben vom Gesetz der Jahreszeiten, der Vergangenheit entfliehend, getrennt von der Gegenwart. Unser Schicksal ist die harte Erde, Wir sind der Sonne verloren. Eine düstere Sammlung vergessener Schätze. Sie greift nach den Tontöpfen und der dösenden schwarzen Witwe Auf der Suche nach einer abgenutzten Säge, rostigem Draht und Zedernholz. Ihre Hände bluten und welken, ist sie fleißig, werden wir erneut blühen, im Frühling.