Last night's poetry reading was little but sweet, and then I emerged from my zoom cave to find Paul frying up a gorgeous meal of Sichuan shrimp, while Tom was hanging out in the kitchen meal-coaching and listening to baseball and chit-chatting about movies and such. Meanwhile, a slow rain fell and fell--a long and quiet rain that continues to fall this morning.
So, today: Hauling trash cans to the curb in the rain. An exercise class. A phone call with my sister. Editing. Grocery shopping in the rain. I happen to have bought a new raincoat last week. Just in time, apparently.
Yesterday I finished rereading Bronte's Shirley so now I'm going to read a novel Paul recommends: Tommy Orange's There There. And of course the Odyssey goes on and on.
I dream of writing poems, but when?
Answer?
ReplyDeleteWhen the poems come twining around your ankles tripping you, yet purring seductively until you sit down and allow them to jump in your lap,
I don't know if that metaphor quite works for me personally. I think I'm more like a garden hose with a leak.
ReplyDelete