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rejectomorphThe bees are finally showing up, accompanied by many other flying insects. The feral cats had a splendid time chasing bugs this afternoon. I also saw the first daddy long legs spider of the season on the back porch. It came riding its shimmering thread from the edge of the roof, and swung about in the soft breeze for a while before planting the end of the thread against the wall. But this spider was unwise. It began building its web directly across a space through which I frequently pass. Needless to say the web was never completed. It's night now, so I don't see the spider anymore and don't know where it has gone. If it builds in an out of the way corner I won't bother it, but I have no intention of changing my habits for an arachnid.
It's remarkable how quickly the oaks have grown their new leaves. They are already making a fairly dense shade, even though the days have been coll enough that we really don't need it yet. The cats and I all seek the sunny parts of the yard, though when summer comes I'm sure we'll all be glad of those leaves. For now it's nice to bask in the bright afternoon for a few minutes at a time— I don't want to be getting sunburned— and listed to the bugs buzz. When evening comes everything is shade, but I can sit on the porch where the sun has warmed the cement, and I listen to the frogs and the rustling of young leaves. I expect crickets any time now. And all I have to pay for this abundance is a few pollen-induced sneezes. A bargain.
Sunday Verse
by Czeslaw Milosz
And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
"We are," they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it's still a strange pageant,
Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
It's remarkable how quickly the oaks have grown their new leaves. They are already making a fairly dense shade, even though the days have been coll enough that we really don't need it yet. The cats and I all seek the sunny parts of the yard, though when summer comes I'm sure we'll all be glad of those leaves. For now it's nice to bask in the bright afternoon for a few minutes at a time— I don't want to be getting sunburned— and listed to the bugs buzz. When evening comes everything is shade, but I can sit on the porch where the sun has warmed the cement, and I listen to the frogs and the rustling of young leaves. I expect crickets any time now. And all I have to pay for this abundance is a few pollen-induced sneezes. A bargain.
Sunday Verse
And Yet the Books
by Czeslaw Milosz
And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
"We are," they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it's still a strange pageant,
Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
