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?
2 comments:
Answer?
When 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.
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