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rejectomorphThe rainy Saturday was a delight, although I saw very little of it, being asleep for most of the daylight hours. The rain was quite intense at times, and there was much wind, and while we were enjoying the rain in the valley some of the mountain areas got quite a bit of new snow. I woke up for a while in the afternoon and during a lull in the storm went out to check my mailbox, but there was nothing in it.
About the time I went out thunder began, and a few minutes later there was an intense downpour and much thunder and lightning along with some strong wind. I shut down the computer and started reading in bed but, to my surprise, I soon fell asleep to the soothing sound of the furious storm, and didn't wake up until nightfall, when things had quieted down considerably.
Today will be different. It will be dry, and I'll be aware that there are no more days like Saturday in the forecast. In fact the first 90 degree days will arrive next Saturday. That storm will have to last me a long, long time. Maybe the rest of my life. The snow that fell will begin melting today, and melt faster each day until it is gone. It occurs to me that my brain is like that snow, melting away in the decay of age which is, ironically, like a chill cast over everything.
I hardly sneezed all day Saturday. That won't last, I'm sure. The brief respite ends, and it's back to the blazing world.
Sunday Verse
by Jane Kenyon
It’s quiet here. The cats
sprawl, each
in a favored place.
the geranium leans this way
to see if I’m writing about her:
head all petals, brown
stalks, and those green fans.
So you see,
I am writing about you.
I turn on the radio. Wrong.
Let’s not have any noise
in this room, except
the sound of a voice reading a poem.
The cats request
The Meadow Mouse, by Theodore Roethke.
The house settles down on its haunches
for a doze.
I know you are with me, plants,
and cats—and even so, I’m frightened,
sitting in the middle of perfect
possibility.
About the time I went out thunder began, and a few minutes later there was an intense downpour and much thunder and lightning along with some strong wind. I shut down the computer and started reading in bed but, to my surprise, I soon fell asleep to the soothing sound of the furious storm, and didn't wake up until nightfall, when things had quieted down considerably.
Today will be different. It will be dry, and I'll be aware that there are no more days like Saturday in the forecast. In fact the first 90 degree days will arrive next Saturday. That storm will have to last me a long, long time. Maybe the rest of my life. The snow that fell will begin melting today, and melt faster each day until it is gone. It occurs to me that my brain is like that snow, melting away in the decay of age which is, ironically, like a chill cast over everything.
I hardly sneezed all day Saturday. That won't last, I'm sure. The brief respite ends, and it's back to the blazing world.
Sunday Verse
Afternoon in the House
by Jane Kenyon
It’s quiet here. The cats
sprawl, each
in a favored place.
the geranium leans this way
to see if I’m writing about her:
head all petals, brown
stalks, and those green fans.
So you see,
I am writing about you.
I turn on the radio. Wrong.
Let’s not have any noise
in this room, except
the sound of a voice reading a poem.
The cats request
The Meadow Mouse, by Theodore Roethke.
The house settles down on its haunches
for a doze.
I know you are with me, plants,
and cats—and even so, I’m frightened,
sitting in the middle of perfect
possibility.
no subject
Date: 2024-05-06 04:54 am (UTC)