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Quote by Lebo Grand

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Lebo Grand

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“A real house with a copper pot for making jam, and sugar cookies in a metal box hidden deep inside a dresser. A long farmhouse table, thick and homey, and cretonne curtains. She smiled. She had no idea what cretonne was, or even if she'd like it, but she liked the way the words went together: cretonne curtains. She'd have a guest room and- who knows- maybe even some guests. A well-kept little garden, hens who'd provide her with tasty boiled eggs, cats to chase after the field mice and dogs to chase after the cats. A little plot of aromatic herbs, a fireplace, sagging armchairs and books all around. White tablecloths, napkin rings unearthed at flea markets, some sort of device so she could listen to the same operas her father used to listen to, and a coal stove where she could let a rich beef-and-carrot stew simmer all morning along. A rich beef-and-carrot stew. What was she thinking. A little house like the ones that kids draw, with a door and two windows on either side. Old-fashioned, discreet, silent, overrun with Virginia creeper and climbing roses. A house with those little fire bugs on the porch, red and black insects scurrying everywhere in pairs. A warm porch where the heat of the day would linger and she could sit in the evening to watch for the return of the heron.”

“The Christmas Child by Stewart Stafford O this world’s resplendent beauty, Halting breath of sheer mortal me, Words in my throat pause freely, My eyes overflow involuntarily. Salted joy’s bittersweet reign. Sculptors can your looks ne’er feign, The greatest reward gifted to me, Wrenched away in coldest larceny. Death shall hold no fear, I say, With your sweet face to light my way, At precipice edge, a smitten retinue, My beloved, restored, so we continue. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”