Monday, June 6, 2016

A night of warm soaking rain, and now a thrush singing; now the long grass, pale and sodden, folding beneath the plum tree; and in the small wind, a memory of water.

I am reading Halberstam's October 1964, reading Plath's Ariel, reading Austen's Sense and Sensibility. I am spring-cleaning the porch and washing towels and planning graduation meals and thinking of Homer. I am cutting lettuce and frying sage. I am kissing my boys good-bye, I am listening to quiet, I am feeding the dog and slicing bread. I am using comma splices deliberately, I am ending sentences with prepositions because I want to. I am wondering why anyone reads this blog because I am doing nothing notable--simply moving through the hours, simply moving toward something, anything, something.

In the small wind, a memory of water. In the small wind, a whisper of summer, a scent of winter. Roses fly their brave white flags. Beetles devour the asparagus.


Ruth said...

I read your blog because:
sometimes you eloquently write about my life at the moment;
sometimes you spur me on to actually do something with my;
sometimes you give me new ideas of what to read or to write;
sometimes you remind me to stop and listen and observe.
But most of all,
you are my friend and I love connecting with you!

Carlene said...

sometimes, you move me to tears
sometimes, I laugh aloud
sometimes, I get justifiably irritated at the same things, and you say them so much better than I
sometimes, I live vicariously through your exploits in music, art, and words
and sometimes...
all of the time,
I like to hear your voice in my head.


Dawn Potter said...

No one is sweeter than the two of you.