Little mole

My little mole is building again another mountain mainly out of his vivid imagination and worries, justified or projected. Then he jumps back into his hole, slams the door shut. "There is a big mountain outside of the door." To his bed he crawls. Where are my worries? You left them on your mountain. He sleeps. Then he wakes up, makes a cup of coffee, when he drinks it, he thinks: It's clean up day. He opens the door, sweeps couple of old leaves. Where is my mountain? It is not the mountain at all: just a little mole hill. I decorated my mountain with all kind flowers colors of rainbow I could find to bloom all year around. Copyright (c) Marie Neumann Pottsville, April 2012