posted on a second-hand store by Curlew, Wa.To find other photo hunters, go here.
4/26/08
Celebrating National Poetry Month: #26
In The End We Are All Light
I love how old men carry purses for their wives,
those stiff light beige or navy wedge-shaped bags
that match the women’s pumps,
with small gold clasps that click open and shut.
The men drowse off in medical center waiting rooms,
with bags perched in their laps like big tame birds
too worn to flap away. Within, the wives slowly undress,
put on the thin white robes, consult, come out
and wake the husbands dreaming openmouthed.
And when they both rise up
to take their constitutional,
walk up and down the block, her arms are free as air,
his right hand dangles down.
So I, desiring to shed this skin
for some light silken one,
will tell my husband, “Here, hold this,”
and watch him amble off into the mall among the shining
cans of motor oil, my leather bag
slung over his massive shoulder bone,
so prettily slender-waisted, so forgiving of the ways
we hold each other down, that watching him
I see how men love women, and women men,
and how the burden of the other comes to be
light as a feather blown, more quickly vanishing.
-Liz Rosenberg
I love how old men carry purses for their wives,
those stiff light beige or navy wedge-shaped bags
that match the women’s pumps,
with small gold clasps that click open and shut.
The men drowse off in medical center waiting rooms,
with bags perched in their laps like big tame birds
too worn to flap away. Within, the wives slowly undress,
put on the thin white robes, consult, come out
and wake the husbands dreaming openmouthed.
And when they both rise up
to take their constitutional,
walk up and down the block, her arms are free as air,
his right hand dangles down.
So I, desiring to shed this skin
for some light silken one,
will tell my husband, “Here, hold this,”
and watch him amble off into the mall among the shining
cans of motor oil, my leather bag
slung over his massive shoulder bone,
so prettily slender-waisted, so forgiving of the ways
we hold each other down, that watching him
I see how men love women, and women men,
and how the burden of the other comes to be
light as a feather blown, more quickly vanishing.
-Liz Rosenberg
4/25/08
My Digs For A Few Days
For the next few days I am attending a leadership retreat for the writing project group I involved with. This is my home away from home for the next few days. I set up my own little desk.
When I am away from home I like to create my own little nest. I am rooming with my good friend, we have had a fine retreat so far, I get to squeeze in some shopping, and I got a drink from Starbucks today, so life is good.
Celebrating National Poetry Month: #25
How Are You Doing?
As much as you deserve it,
I wouldn’t wish this
Sunday night on you-
not the Osco at closing,
not its two tired women
and shaky security guard,
not its bin of flip-flops
and Tasmanian Devil
baseball caps,
not its freshly mopped floors
and fluorescent lights,
not its endless James Taylor
song on the intercom,
and not its last pint of
chocolate mint ice cream,
which I carried
down Milwaukee Ave.
past a man in an unbuttoned
baseball shirt, who stepped
out of a shadow to whisper,
How are you doing?
-Rick Snyder
As much as you deserve it,
I wouldn’t wish this
Sunday night on you-
not the Osco at closing,
not its two tired women
and shaky security guard,
not its bin of flip-flops
and Tasmanian Devil
baseball caps,
not its freshly mopped floors
and fluorescent lights,
not its endless James Taylor
song on the intercom,
and not its last pint of
chocolate mint ice cream,
which I carried
down Milwaukee Ave.
past a man in an unbuttoned
baseball shirt, who stepped
out of a shadow to whisper,
How are you doing?
-Rick Snyder
inlandempiregirl's comment: an endless James Taylor song on the intercom is a good thing!
4/24/08
Celebrating National Poetry Month: #24
Analysis of BaseballIt’s about
the ball,
the bat,
and the mitt.
Ball hits
bat, or it
hits mitt.
Bat doesn’t
hit ball, bat
meets it.
Ball bounces
off bat, flies
air, or thuds
ground (dud)
or it
fits mitt.
Bat waits
for ball
to mate.
Ball hates
to take bat’s
bait. Ball
flirts, bat’s
late, don’t
keep the date.
Ball goes in
(thwack) to mitt,
and goes out
(thwack) back
To mitt.
Ball fits
mitt,but
not all
the time.
Sometimes
ball gets hit
(pow) when bat
meets it,
and sails
to a place
where mitt
has to quit
in disgrace.
That’s about
the bases
loaded,
about 40,000
fans exploded.
It’s about
the ball,
the bat,
the mitt,
the bases
and the fans.
It’s done
on a diamond,
and for fun.
It’s about
home, and it’s
about run.
May Swenson
4/23/08
Seeing the New Landscape and More For the Woodpile
I am still not used to our new area when you reach the gate at our driveway. With the four big pine trees and landscape islands gone it looks so much bigger. 
We haven't added gravel yet so the big dirt piles are perfect places for Kit to romp and tear.
Annie and Shelby kept hoping they would find buried treasures in the new piles of dirt. 
JEJ moved our tall birdhouse and placed it even higher so the birds could be safe from our feline friends.
In the back part of the house another pine is now down. This tree appeared so much longer when it was on the ground. I think this one will give us another third of a cord of winter wood... or after the two inches of snow that fell today... perhaps spring firewood.
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