February 8, 2013

Ah . . . sunshine again!  The day is so beautiful that I wish I could share it with all the people expecting blizzard conditions today.  For a severe lack of sleep, I am thinking that the sunshine and blue skies today are what is keeping me functioning.  Tomorrow cloudy again and Sunday a good chance of severe storms, and then weather more like winter.  I am hoping no freezes as the little fruit trees are popping out with fuchsia and white flowers, and the maple tree plans on helicopter seeds any day now.  Things are beginning to look very spring like and I would not want all that tender new growth to get a icy surprise! 

The daily tasks make up our lives; we often don't remember them years later, maybe not even the character of the days, much less the particulars.  I think poets are sometimes trying to save what the ordinary is like, what the days are made up of, the ordinary, the routine . . . 

Song 

I'm about to go shopping.

It rained in the night.

The cat is asleep on a

clothes hamper.  The roses

are moldy.  Humidity.

The sun goes in and out.

I have a letter to answer.

Postcard won't do.  This

time, God willing, I'll

remember the Ivory Snow. 

James Schuyler 

Going to the market, getting groceries, buying what's necessary, and sometimes what isn't.  There have been several nights of rain lately, wind and the sound of water dripping off our non-existent eaves.  The back yard cat sleeps on Michael's old sailboat since the canoe is gone.  Roses are something that don't grow here very well, just for those reasons:  mold and humidity.  Today the sun is mostly out, tomorrow mostly will be in.  I write a letter nearly every morning and send it to people I love.  For me, email will do <smile>.  And now that I spend a fair amount of time standing in front of the cupboard or the refrigerator trying to remember what it was I opened them for, I understand the poet's prayer;  I have used it myself. 

Mikayla is off to visit the boys and it seems too quiet already . . . even though she's only been gone a couple of hours.  The silence has a different quality. 

On the cerulean (yes, I know, a poet word) sky there is one long line of puffy white cloud, like the kind made by old steam engines crossing the country back in their heyday.  Or it could be a line of a natural poem, scribbled by water and the wind.  Or it could be the beginning of a dream drifting there waiting for nightfall . . .  Whatever it is, it makes the sky more interesting and gives the imagination somewhere soft to stand . . .