Of the Surface of Things
By Wallace Stevens
I
In my room, the world is beyond my understanding;
But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four
hills and a cloud.
II
From my balcony, I survey the yellow air,
Reading where I have written,
"The spring is like a belle undressing."
III
The gold tree is blue,
The singer has pulled his cloak over his head.
The moon is in the folds of the cloak.
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We spent most of Sunday in Hanover with Paul's parents, driving up with Maddy and stopping to pick up pizza on the way. It was a pretty uneventful visit: we skyped with Daniel and Adam and with David's family, ate brownies, and looked through old photo albums (I'd forgotten that Clair spoke at a service with the King of Norway and that there were photos of the Andersons at Dinosaur Land 40 years ago).
We had a late dinner while watching Bones -- the 100th episode flashing back to their first case and the prom queen horror movie episode -- and Maddy and I did some research for classes she wants to take in the area. Fortunately we missed most of the disaster that was the Nationals' 18-inning loss to the Pirates. Daisy, Cinnamon, and this sleepy blub Effie all helped me put laundry away when we got home:
