Stories From My Garden: Happy Birthday to my Mom

Saturday, May 17, 2014

Happy Birthday to my Mom

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my MOM, Lita (and to her equally beautiful TWIN sister, Tita Rita/Caying)! We love you, mom/Lola L; you have been such a strong support to all of us. We will never be able to thank you enough for all of it. Happy Birthday to the best mom in the world and the prettiest lady I have ever seen! A mother is the truest friend we have, when trials heavy and sudden fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends desert us; when trouble thickens around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts. Washington Irving

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God's Bouquet

You must bloom where you are planted,
In the garden we call life,
And bring some special beauty,
To each corner where there's strife.
Perhaps you're but a dandelion,
Wishing you were a rose,
Yet in this place of growingthings,
You're the one God chose.
It's up to you to finish,
What the good Lord has begun,
By growing just the way youshould,
And face each day's new rising sun.
There's room for you if you choose,
To be in a glorious array,
Of beauty from God's garden,
That He'll add to His bouquet.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:--
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth (1815)