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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
![Joy Sweeps [#1514072]
Kiya's gift. I love it!](http://www.InkSpot.Com/main/trans.gif)
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Daily Cascade
Since my old blog "Everyday Canvas " became overfilled, here's a new one. This new blog item will continue answering prompts, the same as the old one.
Cool water cascading to low ground
To spread good will and hope all around.
![Rainbow/cascade [#1887119]
image for blog](http://www.InkSpot.Com/main/trans.gif)
December 2, 2025 at 11:24am December 2, 2025 at 11:24am
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Prompt:
“Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.”
William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing
What do you think this quote means and does its meaning have something to do with your life?
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Good old bard! Leave it to him to stun and entertain us. I guess, he means, in a nutshell, time lingers when love is unresolved and when it is fully complete, it marches on, again.
Is time really slow, halting, and unsteady? I don't think so. I think, with or without love, time flies.
At any rate, the quote is saying that nothing moves freely when love is unfinished. This is when days feel longer and every hour is heavy with waiting.
Plus, love is portrayed here as a kind of sacred ceremony, since it needs attention and sincerity to be complete. Until its rites are taken care of, feelings confessed, wounds healed, and understanding and union is reached, life and love make little sense. So, when and if love has been complete, then time regains its pace. Then it moves with purpose, easily, with its natural rhythm.
After I tried to explain what Shakespeare possibly had meant, I thought, "What a pain love is! It even messes up with time. Just maybe." Though now, I think, possibly I was very lucky. If love messed with time, I never noticed it. 
It's also possible that I am not a romantic.
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December 1, 2025 at 1:48pm December 1, 2025 at 1:48pm
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Prompt:
“God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.”
James M. Barrie
Happy December! What does "roses in December" bring to your mind?
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This quote makes me think of my memories. Aren't memories the gardeners of souls? And if so, they'd give us roses of all colors, wouldn't they!
Memory itself tucks beauty into the pockets of our days. How about that last sentence? It came out somewhat lyrical, all by itself. Let me see, if I can continue with that lyrical idea.
So, this quote reminds me that beauty doesn’t disappear; it transforms. It becomes something I can return to, something to keep me alive in my quieter days. When the world becomes bare, memory lights its small candles to give me moments of warmth, laughter, and tenderness. Those moments bloom in spite of the harshness, sadness, or grief.
Like roses.
Roses in December are not the flowers I hold in my hands, but blossoms I carry in my heart. They are the echoes of my loved ones' voices, the warmth of long-ago evenings with my whole family together, the sweetness of our successes, wins, or victories. Above all, memories touch me with their kindness, leaving their soft petals about me. So, I gather these petals from my past and cradle and cherish them.
After all, memory is God's way of reminding me of Joy-the person and the real joy that never left me. For it waits, like a rose beneath winter snow, ready to open when I need it the most.
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