At Home Where There's Cookies and Pie

"Two hours before breakfast
We would put on our coats
With our skis and old sleds,
We'd enjoy the first snow.
Here
It's raining
Warmer, but colder
Space heater, no couch.

I care
I wish I was there
At home where there's cookies and pie."
That's not the whole thang, just the beginning. I can only write sad poems when I'm partly happy and I feel how it would feel if I was completely content. Naturally one ought to be absolutely content wherever one is, even if one plans to change something about one's surroundings. But sometimes you aren't, like when the radio is playing same-old, lame-old christmas songs you used to listen to when you were feeling full up of good things. Or when you're drinking hot chocolate for the first time in years and it brings back the daily cup that you used to share with your Mama.
Actually I haven't been drinking hot chocolate, but thinking about it.
This morning I was remembering a dream--it's amazing; every dream I've had has a newborn baby that I'm getting to take care of, and I'm cherishing him (it's always a boy because that's what I hope my new little brother is). I said,
"I need a baby." Then I said, "I better get married."
These things, I don't realize I'm saying till they come out and then I set me back and look at me from across the room and say to me,
"You have some interesting thought patterns."
The End

Ephraim would probably have a problem with the name of this blog:
"Where there's cookies?" He would demand in an offended tone. Grammar King.