It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ~ Dickens.
Dirk Bogarde, my favorite Sidney Carton,
said it with eyes shining in the dark
Words now reduced to threads
at the edge of a frayed cliche
If only words could
cure the world as easily
as pull the wool over our eyes
If widdershins could disperse oil spills
or brillig or gyre could hoist a lance
to run neatly through the heart of hate
That kind of thing
Words for the worst of times.
Audio: Read by the author.
tree crowns washed by sun
dawn’s point of gleam inching right
buds are not ready
there is movement
in the daily flow of green
to full on spring
as bud fists loosen grips
or fern nubs thrust up clumpy heads
and hillsides morph to verdigris
reminding me of childhood nights
spent time-stretched
jumping tick to tock
wrapped in wild impatient
longing for the morning
and its gifts to come
in truth the journey
through that wait
or days lived blossomless
are weighted to the same degree
because this moment’s beauty is
the only certainty we have
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a shortling for 5/5. spring has been excruciatingly slow this year for us. yet even as we creep along, just knowing the apple tree will blossom, or the lilacs bloom, is such a gift.
spring kept pace with sludge
now it’s pedal to the metal
life is greening fast
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Day 18.
Life With Horace 