a little towel

In a boy's recluse is a plate of waffles and an earnest rest.

A warmth in a towel's soft embrace does encumber a baby's hands,

As to an alright gesture is a remedy of lunch boxes and juice cups.

An urn is in a corner, and an umbrella is perched on it.

"May, you have to come with me. I am picking up groceries," says a shy girl.

"I may not finish my homework; okay, I will go with you." May is calm.

The two girls prepare to tide as a dewy morning soothes a messy breakfast.

Malo is in a current of autumn leaves as she frolics over a novel.

A little baby girl is mashing blueberries together with her wee hands,

As a violin is aloft in a melody of sunrise and early munching.

"Take your cup, baby girl." Annie says to her small little sister.

The pretty baby, in a tender stride, picks up the cup of orange juice,

And as an ardent tune is spinning and twisting in the air,

An older brother gathers a bin of pastries and beverage boxes.

"Jin! Can you please wake her up? I want her to have some breakfast,

And as I begin to walk to a library to pick up books, do not fret.

Father is tilling the garden; ask him if he wants anything to drink."

Lila scolds his brother as her scarf is dangling by her arms.

Jin is spent from a night of writing and playing video games,

And he treads a hallway to a little sister's bedroom.

...

An auberge is a steady home that kindles in a study as is a cake pan sits in a stove's apology for an evening of festivity and teaching.

A sister, Lila, arrives in a calm garden of a library and gently murmurs a poem.

"Where is thou who is in a love for me?

My book is a shield in which you may not learn of me."

She walks to an entrance and carries a satchel, and her skirt is a soft flurry.

...

A classroom is an invitation to fall in love with a study as a student that may learn from a teacher.

To lecture in an evening of quiet pondering is a lovely gesture for Malo.

She reads a lot, and even if her mother tells her to go outside, she forgets.

As her curiosity becomes a guest in a bedroom's nightly sentiment,

Malo discovers in her writing a submissive zeal.

An ounce of my concern is a wayward journal of literature and sense.

Malo is writing in her notebook.

A beach is my manner in writing and learning about my family.

As a stick is perched in a sand castle's tower, an apple is eaten.

Altercations in a story's inquiry for sorry letters is a hope.

She pinches her cheek as she drops her pencil.

Her door opens slightly, and Jin pops in.

"Malo, go downstairs to your breakfast." Jin gestures and nudges.

It may not be a good poem to Mila, but she starts to think of oatmeal.

"Give me a second, and I'll prepare myself a nice cup of cereal.

Where is your appetite for my poetry in this morning?"

Malo says in a patient manner as her brother listens.

"Alright, let me have your poem. Go downstairs, please."

Malo grins and hands him her notebook. "Read this."

Jin yawns and begins to read as her sister dreams of porridge.

...

I doze in a heartfelt gesture of cuddles and pillows in the morning.

My girlfriend, seeing my brisk hair, gives a kiss as I scrub my eyes.

"I may fall in love with you if it weren't for your kisses," I say.

She gets a little upset at my verse and gives me another kiss.

"I don't like you," she mutters. Her hips nudge my own.

A pillow encounters our love in a short whisk of light taps.

Her scent allures my curious covet as I embrace her cuddles.

"I love you," I say. Her face crimsons as her hair smothers me so.

...

An invitation to eat a bowl of cereal is a good way to spend a morning.

Restful and a little bashful, my brother and I submerge in a kitchen's trove.

A pan sizzles of pancake mix and strawberry jam.

A kettle of chocolate milk is heating next to it.

A couple of little babies sit on a blanket, sharing cookies and fruits.

Malo sits in a corner of a table, scraping a vanilla cream on her waffles.

My father is tending the garden of roses and yellow and orange lilies,

And as my lover is sauntering about in a melody of summer acoustics,

My cousin plays her violin as my brother listens to a podcast.

I sit on the kitchen table and wait for my breakfast: usually some fruits.

As I sip on milk and munch on a mango, I write notes of my studies.

...

In an equation's humble complexity is a treasure that is an answer.

My brother and I are learning mathematics in a university's process.

We question each other's drafts of bio-chemistrical passages.

As a hydrogen bonds with a leaf's amino acids, I write down,

a network of neurotransmitters are flooded in a stream of nutrition.

I am dismayed and inspired by a literature of medicine and physics.

...

My older brother in France conjoins his studies and our discussions.

Another brother in Germany speaks in his tenacity for astronomy.

"It is not a weathered question of intuition for our guests of skies and love.

As a star is forged by light and fire, an aurora of hydrogen and helium

molecules are engulfed in an epic tale of covalent bonds and structural

formulas."

In our discussions are an uplift of literary scribes and momentous dabbles.

Our cousins from Poland reach in as one gestures to write a script.

"It may hope to a dream of intimacy that I cannot but endure my faith.

Let me drink a lemonade as you speak on about your stars and chemistry."

As a habit to write, I begin to jot down a couple lines of a romantic poem.

Although it may take time for a cupcake to rise in a heat of an oven,

it may also take time for an introspection of innovation to ferment as

students collaborate and love in a together-ness of rafts and wit.

My sister hesitates as she begins to speak about her literary scholarship.

"I like to study in philosophical gestures of romance and habitual demise.

An eager librarian's creative imagination is consoled not by a book,

but by a ruse of a charming and attractive young girl." As she says this,

My cousins blush as she is a pretty young girl herself.

"As the librarian awaits a chance to divulge his senses and is afraid,

He goes on as a cabbage is chopped on a wooden board.

His thoughts are fixated on a girl's hesitation and inquisitive attention,

and his nights are busy in plots to bring her a warm plate of casserole."

A wonder is in my mind as I think of why she is scolding her cousins.

...

Lila returns in an evening of soft voices as my sister and cousin and I,

in a room together, discuss the ways of which our games may be better.

We, in a comfort of a summer dusk, like to pass a tennis ball in a rally.

Lila sits with us and listens to a conversation of swift volleys.

"A good hit is something that is earned by a swerve of a waist and an arm.

Do not fret as you grip your racquet. A ball is incoming as you ponder.

A patience is a wit as you pace your stride and meet with a ball's bounce.

Learn to study a ball's velocity as you ready your strike in defense."

I rub my drowsy eyes as I begin to improve in the sport.

My cousin laughs as he says, "I may lose my patience because of my pace.

The ball seems to jounce a little higher than I would expect."

I say, "I have a similar problem." We both smirk as my sister sighs.

...

In a studious night of calm sleepy baby murmurs and giggles,

A plate of cookies is warm and served as the little babies gather to snack.

...

Our dreams are in a hearth of family love and togetherness.

A scenery of curtains are tenderly wafting in the fan's gentle wind,

And I begin to fall asleep as a literature of unfolding is in a rest.

May a world of inspiration and beautiful skies become as we begin.