My putative cold is holding: not moving forward, but still making me feel just a little . . . bleah. My daughter moved into her new house
today. The historian and I, along with running son, I mean singing
son, and others, helped. It was a gorgeous day. The Jazz beat the Nuggets. We bought vegetables and eggs from Chad. I wrote a poem
, and now I'm going to read a book
until I fall asleep.
must edit to be singing son! Ah the Freudian slip! I'll bet you wish running son was there.ReplyDelete
I love "don't interrupt me with messages." The whole poem is a gorgeous way to let things be what they are. This poetry project of yours is inspiring.ReplyDelete
I like the message part too. Also the part about clouds.ReplyDelete
And thanks for your comment on my poem. You are so onto me.
First, I read a David Kirby poem. Then I wrote mine.
So I'm not so much a good poet as a skilled imitator. But I'll take that.
Lovely poems. Good job in writing one a day. I'm behind. But I might catch up. Maybe in May?