A Morning as My Chamomile Plant

A Thursday Anthromorph Morning Freewrite

“Wet, wet, wet!” I try to cry, not liking the pool of water sitting about my toes.

“Grow, grow, grow!” I tell my hair, but it hangs there, limp and sagging.

“Snip, snip, snip!” Sing the scissors, cutting out tangled, dead masses from about my live greens.

“Drip. Drip. Drip.” The water trickles away from my feet.

“Sun! Sun! Sun!” My whispy leave start to grow, loving another bright and cheery day by the hot air vent, basking in the morning light past the windows gleaming with tiny, frozen rivers of frost.

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