AND WHO DOESN'T WANT TO LIVE

 53 of 100daychallenge

Hi. I felt better today, thank you for asking. My jaw is still kind of sore, but I suppose that is to be expected. I got up when the first alarm rang at 6:41, made coffee, put air in my tire, and was the first person at yoga. Now, that's a first. Yoga is held at Steven's house. He lives next to a pond. These ducks frequent the mean morning streets and do not give a hoot nor quack about cars.

It's kind of muggy tonight. This is not helped by not having any windows open as there are not screens strong enough to keep the Mighty Kitties of Summer Avenue inside. So we don't get much of that cool night breeze we like so much. I have hopes of replacing some of the screens, maybe one by one, but, like so many things, that hasn't happened yet.

I played hooky from Janet tonight for a couple of hours. KH is still a working through the very recent loss of her mom, so I took advantage of the reason to get away for a bit. I had taken Janet on a drive this afternoon, so I had spent more time with her than some days. KH made some dinner and we just jabbered for a few hours.

I did not do too much by way of progress, although I did some ironing and a few minutes with James Joyce. I was planning on reading this evening when KH texted in a bit of funk. Even though it is very late, perhaps I will read on a bit. The two Ulysses companion books are helping quite bit, and I can focus a bit more on the language rather than wtf is going on and how does this related to the Odyssey. I am not making rapid progress, but I think I am getting it. I just need to hunker down for awhile.

HUMMINGBIRD PAUSES AT TRUMPET VINE

Who doesn’t love

roses, and who

doesn’t love the lilies

of the black ponds

floating like flocks

of tiny swans,

and of course the flaming

trumpet vine

where the hummingbird comes

like a small green angel, to soak

his dark tongue

in happiness—

and who doesn’t want

to live with the brisk

motor of his heart

singing

like a Schubert,

and his eyes

working and working like those days of rapture,

by van Gogh, in Arles?

Look! for most of the world

is waiting

or remembering—

most of the world is time

when we’re not here,

not born yet, or died—

a slow fire

under the earth with all

our dumb wild blind cousins

who also

can’t even remember anymore

their own happiness—

Look! and then we will be

like the pale cool

stones, that last almost

forever.

— Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Beacon Press, Boston 1992