It’s the little things that I always forget
The little things that inspire life’s prose
Like feeling your warm sleepy breath on my neck
Like feeling the ocean wipe the sand from my toes
That lost ray of sun on a cold winter's morning
The freedom to run when I don’t feel like walking
To smile every time there’s no reason for mourning
To relish the moments when we speak without talking.
Too long have I gazed at the looming big picture
Too long have I dwelt on what’s lacking and missing
Today I subscribe to a new kind of fiction
I will smell every rose to the birds’ choir listen.
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Warmly from Moscow - S.