National Poetry Month: From "Spring is like a perhaps hand" by E. E. Cummings:
Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and
changing everything carefully
Himself: Swam, job hunted, picked me up at work, delivered truckload of stuff, home to dinner. He’s such a good guy.
Herself: Hardly anyone donated yesterday, and we had little work to do. Lessa seemed delighted by the stuff….and I was delighted at the quality but not that much had been worn and had dog fur on it.
- I want to run, or drive since I don’t run well any more, down the hill and get photos of one front yard that’s wall to wall calla lilies. Flat out stunning. My first husband must have robbed every neighboring yard of calla lilies at Lessa’s birth because our house was filled with the things. It’s been years since I could look at them with any freedom of my soul, and today, at last, I have a yen to photograph them.
- We are heading to an estate sale today that I hope has frames. I’d like an ornate frame to surround one of Bee’s pieces I’m turning into an installation. It’s called “Anger,” and I don’t see much anger in it. With my tongue in my cheek, I’m going to surround/float the piece in a proscenium arch, and install a draw string scrim….a light silk. Hide that already hidden anger. Make both of us laugh.
- We are being social. Us recluses, us hermits, us isolationists….we are reaching out. It’s good for us. We have had lunch at their delightful cottage, and now they are having dinner here. Mexican. Cheese enchiladas made the traditional way, beans…made not at all traditionally, coffee, diet coke, water, and a fattening chocolate desert. All those years of his getting up at 4 and going to work at 5 have ended. We don’t have to continue this bad habit. I hope that when he gets a new job that the hours don’t force us back into isolationism again. In the meantime, I will drag down the extra chairs.
- Weather. It really matters here. G get’s depressed easily in the grey days of winter, and his depression leads him not only into isolation but into forgetting his light, his meetings, and everything but his depression. We are heading into a week of greyness and sprinkles. If he is depressed, I shrink into myself. That’s good for my poetry, but I don’t’ get much else done. Yup, I’m praying for sun here while I drag the chairs up from the garage.