By J.D. McClatchy
If trees fall in a wood and no one hears them,
Do they exist except as a page of lines
That words of rapture or grief are written on?
They are lines too while alive, pointing away
From the primer of damped air and leafmold
That underlie, or would if certain of them
Were not melon or maize, solferino or smoke,
Colors into which a sunset will collapse
On a high branch of broken promises.
Or they nail the late summer’s shingles of noon
Back onto the horizon’s overlap, reflecting
An emptiness visible on leaves that come and go.
How does a life flash before one’s eyes
At the end? How is there time for so much time?
You pick up the book and hold it, knowing
Long since the failed romance, the strained
Marriage, the messenger, the mistake,
Knowing it all at once, as if looking through
A lighted dormer on the dark crest of a barn.
You know who is inside, and who has always been
At the other edge of the wood. She is waiting
For no one in particular. It could be you.
If you can discover which tree she has become,
You will know whether it has all been true.
for Wolf Kahn
Monday was a gorgeous day -- oh, periods of rain, but it wasn't too warm and we got 3/4 of a walk in during the afternoon before the god of thunder roared across the skies and we ran the rest of the way home in the pouring rain. We hadn't been home ten minutes and were still drying off when the sun came out and suddenly there was a rainbow over the entire neighborhood:
We watched some DNC but although I really do feel empowered and moved in equal measure, I am also just so stressed about the post office sabotage etc. that I can only take so much thinking about the election. So after a while we put on Terminator: Dark Fate, which I liked a lot more than I was expecting -- derivative of the earlier movies but lots of women kicking ass!