There must have been a squall, but all I could think was, "It's a fairy dust morning, fairy dust morning, fairy dust morning. . . " Repeating the words like a mantra I rushed to find the pants my husband was looking for and set them on a chair where he would see them. I hauled the boys' sheets down to the laundry, flump, slam, click, glug, whoosh, and bustled upstairs with another basket. Repeating in my mind, "It's a fairy dust morning. . ." while noise of a family filled weekend morning faded into the background of my consciousness. I grabbed my notebook, my pen, and slipped to the window to watch, to wait, and to write.
The poem came quickly. . .