Monday, April 17, 2006
Rite of Spring
If I have proven anything in the nigh on (could it really be?) three years that I have been keeping (to loosely appropriate the term) a blog, it is that I am unreliable but also repentant. Let us consider, dear Reader, that Spring marks my reconcilliation with you after a long silent Winter, where perhaps you feared that I had forgotten you or at the very least begun to stray to other forums for narcissicism and self-exposure. We will kiss and make up, which is my favorite thing to do when the wisteria tree just over the wall at Beekman starts to bloom. I really am very busy and important right now, so I will leave you with a parting token of my affection. See that picture? That is my labor of love. That is my slice of heaven. Orginally, it looked like this:
Is not gardening a glorious thing? Technically, if we were concerned with such things, which really we are not, I didn't actually do any gardening. I did garden planning and supervising. But it was my VISION. And that's what counts.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
I have spent all afternoon
dissolving in a cup of tea
and a book of poetry--
I have gone to live in Italy,
where the warm
golden light was very kind
to my blinking eyes that at first
were unaccustomed to such wholesome delights,
which also included crusty bread and
a friendly pair of Tuscan brothers
who pointed me over the hills
to an old abbey (and grinned for my Italian
was like creaky door).
Oh and everywhere the scent of wisteria
that most wistful of flowers
wound through my hair as I knelt
on the cool, grey stone of the floor, before the altar
in the presence of my lost saints--
I write only to tell you that it is good here,
the rapturous fit of being snug between covers.
It is sheer delight.
And you shall not fetch me out for anything.