Rosehips Send Message

I don’t really think of myself as a poetic sort of person. I don’t find my mind constantly swooping into sonnets, or anything like that. The exception is, of course, about my bed.
I could write sonnets and odes to my bed as it was this morning, my body softly wrapped in my warm covers, my head cradled by the softness of my pillow, the perfect balance of physical comfort and mental rest. It was the sort of bed that is only ever achieved on a Monday morning, when you have to leave its perfect embrace for the cold world.
So, tea, (the other thing that I wax poetic about) is the only solution. Todays brew needed a backbone, which, fortunately this has.
It didn’t make up for having to leave the bed, really, but it made it much more bearable.