The little things -- the four-leaf clovers and the crooked hearts in the summer sand.
They accrue like the interest on your someday-maybe savings account in the neighborhood bank. Slowly, steadily.
The litte things -- the early-morning exclamations over new visitors to the feeder and the later-evening chorus of "I love you!"
They grow in your heart, swell like those funny, flat sponges you won at the Fourth of July fair once-upon-a-time ago.
Oh, the little things.
They crowd out worry and doubt. And fear. And they leave only the full feeling of loving and being loved.
The little things.
The little things
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