52/144: Envoi

[rejectomorph]

It was a cool night, but I didn't sleep very well. I probably went to bed too early, then woke up about four in the morning with hamster wheel brain and couldn't get back to sleep. I finally gave up about half past six after multiple losing bouts with the bedding and dragged my carcass out of the ravaged bed, which I still haven't made up. Maybe I won't. Tomorrow it's going to be getting seriously hot again, and by next weekend the sheer hellishness of the central valley summer will have fully returned. I'm going to laze today away, paying my respects for spring's demise. The corpse is soon to be cremated, leaving but sad memories of what once was. Rest in peace sweet season. Our mournful tears, I fear, will be the closest summer will get to rain.





Sunday Verse

The Summer Day

by Mary Oliver


Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?