By Norman MacCaig
Stop looking like a purse. How could a purse
squeeze under the rickety door and sit,
full of satisfaction, in a man's house?
You clamber towards me on your four corners -
right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot.
I love you for being a toad,
for crawling like a Japanese wrestler,
and for not being frightened.
I put you in my purse hand, not shutting it,
and set you down outside directly under
A jewel in your head? Toad,
you've put one in mine,
a tiny radiance in a dark place.
Monday was an enraging, upsetting news day and a case in point about how little has changed despite a year of protests and supposed increased public awareness. It was also a chore day, since it was gorgeous out and I needed to use the power hose to wash off some ancient kids' toys for freecycling and a couple of Marketplace listings, plus there was laundry and bathroom cleaning and other enviable activities. The cherry blossoms are giving way to dogwoods and crab apple blossoms, so it's still lovely to walk in the neighborhood.
Paul made veggie coq au vin for dinner (non coq au vin?) before Antiques Roadshow, which reminded us this week that we had never bought original art nouveau posters or inherited opal jewelry. After that, we watched the first episode of The Irregulars, which didn't grab me right away the way The Nevers did but I'm certainly willing to give it another week. Then we saw this week's Debris, which has a stronger arc story than alien-crisis-of-the-week most weeks but I love the main characters. Brookside frogs and friends: