52/42: Choke

[rejectomorph]

Very tired again, early evening though it is. I did not sleep well last night, and probably ought to have had a nap today, but haven't. I'm a bit sad that there is some sunlight this evening, reminding me that winter will be going away soon. There could be more rain again next Sunday, but until then it's looking spring-like, with three days in the seventies. The first week of March could bring yet more rain, but it is expected to be warm rain. Nice to walk in perhaps, but I no longer walk, rain or not. I did eat an artichoke today, and have one more in the refrigerator. One of the good things about spring. Artichokes get cheaper, and an artichoke and half a pound of butter makes a tasty lunch. What? Okay, a quarter pound of butter. Sheesh. You'd think that at my age....




Sunday Verse

Lot's Wife

by Anthony Hecht


How simple the pleasures of those childhood days,
Simple but filled with exquisite satisfactions.
The iridescent labyrinth of the spider,
Its tethered tensor nest of polygons
Puffed by the breeze to a little bellying sail —
Merely observing this gave infinite pleasure.
The sound of rain. The gentle graphite veil
Of rain that makes of the world a steel engraving,
Full of soft fadings and faint distances.
The self-congratulations of a fly,
Rubbing its hands. The brown bicameral brain
Of a walnut. The smell of wax. The feel
Of sugar to the tongue: a delicious sand.
One understands immediately how Proust
Might cherish all such postage-stamp details.
Who can resist the charms of retrospection?