51/73: Befuddled

[rejectomorph]

Sleepwrecked, hamster-brained, I muddled through Saturday and Sunday morning, and have now unwisely (I'm sure) stuffed myself with banana cream pie, and done some stuff on another web site, where my embarrassing blather will be seen by even fewer people than it will here, and find myself staring at the monitor as though it were a window that had inexplicably opened into an empty desert (the perfect metaphor for my current state of mind) which I must somehow cross with nary a drop of water, though I'm thinking (if thinking it can be called) I could outsmart it by drinking beer, of which I have an abundance. This is also probably unwise, but I will probably do it anyway, though I think I'll wait until lunch to actually start drinking. In the meantime, here is whatever this is going to be (I haven't given it any thought at all, thought, unlike beer, being in such short supply around here today, but will wing it at random:



Sunday Verse

September 1918

by Amy Lowell


This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Under a tree in the park,
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces,
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.
Some day there will be no war,
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers,
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
To-day I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box,
For I have time for nothing
But the endeavour to balance myself
Upon a broken world.

Comments

[lycomingst]

I've always liked Amy Lowell.