My putative cold is holding: not moving forward, but still making me feel just a little . . . bleah. My daughter moved into her
new house today. The historian and I, along with running son, I mean
singing son, and others, helped. It was a gorgeous day. The Jazz beat the Nuggets. We bought vegetables and eggs from Chad. I wrote a
poem, and now I'm going to read
a book until I fall asleep.
must edit to be singing son! Ah the Freudian slip! I'll bet you wish running son was there.
ReplyDeleteI love "don't interrupt me with messages." The whole poem is a gorgeous way to let things be what they are. This poetry project of yours is inspiring.
ReplyDeleteI like the message part too. Also the part about clouds.
ReplyDeleteAnd thanks for your comment on my poem. You are so onto me.
First, I read a David Kirby poem. Then I wrote mine.
So I'm not so much a good poet as a skilled imitator. But I'll take that.
Lovely poems. Good job in writing one a day. I'm behind. But I might catch up. Maybe in May?