I held a thistle in my palm Round, fuzzy, unassuming I thought of casting it aside But it had grown close to my heart I know, you said, I have one too Round, fuzzy, unassuming And I would never let it go I have learned to like it
Every day a new story comes to life. Most of them remain unwritten. But some of them deserve to be put in writing.
True or fictitious, I jot them down. Some in prose; others in verse. And a few of them get their own tune.