Wet Roses

Wet Roses here, yesterday scorched. Snoring pup at feet, Cohen in background. 

An uncurious November day stuck in June. 

Less blue raincoat, more waxed jacket out, then layers at home. 

Tea, properly potted, brewed and poured. Served in china with simple single infamous blue stripe. 

Sipped hot, a hug.

Things I like, not told to.

For no one, just me and mine. All of it. Each day. Otherwise, why?