By Reetika Vazirani
I would not sing you to sleep.
I would press my lips to your ear
and hope the terror in my heart stirs you.
This is from last weekend's Poet's Choice, the recently deceased poet a friend of columnist Edward Hirsch. I forgot to post it on Sunday, out of the pattern of reading the Sunday Washington Post after a month away.
And since I'm sending people off-site already, there's more beautiful Neruda in colleenkane's journal, in Spanish and in translation.
Yesterday before picking up the van, which needed $500 worth of work after driving around the country, we went out for excellent Thai food. Then we reclaimed our children and tried to console an inconsolable younger son who had accidentally thrown out his 3D glasses and comic from Spy Kids 3-D. Guess I am going to McDonald's today to see if they'll sell me just the toy, not the kids' meal. And zasjah, I am finally going to the post office!
Last night I dreamed that a young Ben Affleck and Matt Damon were playing a young Sirius and Remus in a yet-untitled Harry Potter movie. I blame the fact that "Affleck" sort of rhymes with "Black" and "Damon" sort of rhymes with "Lupin." Otherwise, ashinae, I would have to assume that it was somehow your fault.
Boy In Snow, Crater Lake, Oregon