The trees stand silently against the ashen sky.
We begin our day: make breakfast, pour coffee, pack lunch, sort laundry. In two hours, Tom will be building a house. I will be checking typos. Work crawls on.
On the mantle, a sheaf of peonies reclines, pale and flustered. The room is shadowy. Outside, a bluejay screeches at the cat.
Cordova, far and lonely.
Black pony, full moon,
And olives in my pocket:
Although I know the roads,
I'll never reach Cordova.
[from "The Rider's Song" by Federico Garcia Lorca]
2 comments:
Here, mist shrouds the Vermont hills, birds chatter, a granddaughter is ensconced with her book in a pile of pillows and quilts. I wait out these final few days of student emails and chats. If I were in my classroom, we would be sweating out final exams (and eating waffles). Instead, I am in my bathrobe, trying to get up the ambition to take a shower and greet the world before I join a Zoom at 8:00. Thank you for the Lorca poem. These are my favorite Lorca lines, although the rest of the poem is heartbreaking:
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
Today seems like a day for Lorca, doesn't it? Those lines make me ache.
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