52/137: One (not so fine) Day
Jun. 15th, 2025 09:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphSomehow I managed to cook an actual dinner Saturday, and today I managed to wash the dishes. I was thinking I might need the dishes to fix another dinner tonight, but as the time wears on I grow increasingly tired, so that might not happen. It's difficult to maintain energy two days in a row. Also my damn feet are absolutely killing me, and seem to be wanting to be elevated, which only happens in bed. I might have to indulge them. It is cool enough to have the windows open and the fan on, so being in bed could be pleasant enough. I probably won't get hungry either. It's been too hot for that. Summer doldrums have set in. I was not able to finish the dinner I made last night, and tonight's dinner would probably suffer the same fate anyway. It seems a good time for one of those naps that turns into a full night's sleep. I think I'll go for it.
Sunday Verse
by Marge Piercy
Long ago on a night of danger and vigil
a friend said, why are you happy?
He explained (we lay together
on a hard cold floor) what prison
meant because he had done
time, and I talked of the death of friends.
Why are you happy,
then, he asked, close to
angry.
I said, I like my life. If I
have to give it back, if they
take it from me, let me only
not feel I wasted any, let me
not feel I forgot to love anyone
I meant to love, that I forgot
to give what I held in my hands,
that I forgot to do some little
piece of the work that wanted to come through.
Sun and moonshine, starshine,
the muted grey light off the waters
of the bay at night, the white
light of the fog stealing in,
the first spears of the morning
touching a face
I love. We all lose
everything. We lose ourselves.
We are lost.
Only what we manage to do
lasts, what love sculpts from us;
but what I count, my rubies, my
children, are those moments
wide open, when I know clearly
who I am, who you are, what we
do, a marigold, an oakleaf, a meteor,
with all my senses hungry and filled
at once like a pitcher with light.
Sunday Verse
If They Come In The Night
by Marge Piercy
Long ago on a night of danger and vigil
a friend said, why are you happy?
He explained (we lay together
on a hard cold floor) what prison
meant because he had done
time, and I talked of the death of friends.
Why are you happy,
then, he asked, close to
angry.
I said, I like my life. If I
have to give it back, if they
take it from me, let me only
not feel I wasted any, let me
not feel I forgot to love anyone
I meant to love, that I forgot
to give what I held in my hands,
that I forgot to do some little
piece of the work that wanted to come through.
Sun and moonshine, starshine,
the muted grey light off the waters
of the bay at night, the white
light of the fog stealing in,
the first spears of the morning
touching a face
I love. We all lose
everything. We lose ourselves.
We are lost.
Only what we manage to do
lasts, what love sculpts from us;
but what I count, my rubies, my
children, are those moments
wide open, when I know clearly
who I am, who you are, what we
do, a marigold, an oakleaf, a meteor,
with all my senses hungry and filled
at once like a pitcher with light.
