Discovery


Today, the sun's rays don't reach my little
corner of the earth. We are grey and wet,
nearly every light in the house on. My daughter
works on her Power Point slides in preparation
for her debut as teacher--Introduction to Social
Work. I don't know how she has the energy level
to do all the things she does. She's working on her
LCSW, working full time as supervisor of children's
services at a domestic violence shelter, playing with
the band on occasion, renovating a house with her
boyfriend, chairing committees, attending meetings,
having fun, etc.

The rain just started falling, which may mean our
best laid plans will fall, too, in tandem with the drops.

Walk.

That was the plan for noon or so. And we may still
do that if it stops soon.

I am going to keep Isaac while my son and his wife
go to lunch and a movie. Then tonight, hubby and I
are going to a friend's. Daughter and boyfriend are going
to be painting the hall. I'm excited about it and hope
the colors I chose work well. I chose a color called thyme
green for the bottom part of the wall, and another color
(can't recall the name--a lighter green) for the upper
part. My hallway is rather long and wide (about 18x6).
It has lovely wide baseboards, crown molding, and oranate
chair rail with a beaded pattern. Going to leave the woodwork
white, but I am going to put a very pale green on the ceiling.

We'll see how it works out.

Going to go read some more Annie Dillard--Living by Fiction.
Interesting read thus far.

I like the poem below. I like the language, the premise, the
visuals, the connotations. So, I'll share it.


Finding a Bible in an Abandoned Cabin

Under dust plush as a moth's wing,
the book's leather cover still darkly shown,
and everywhere else but this spot was sodden
beneath the roof's unraveling shingles.
There was that back-of-the-neck lick of chill
and then, from my index finger, the book

opened like a blasted bird. In its box
of familiar and miraculous inks,
a construction of filaments and dust,
thoroughfares of worms, and a silage
of silverfish husks: in the autumn light,
eight hundred pages of perfect wordless lace.

Robert Wrigley