There Went Poetry Month (Almost)


1. The Chevron tank's been frogged (what little start of it there was), as I stopped in at the Yarn Lounge Friday and together with Stewart determined my UFO yarn's got some wool, so's not best for a summer tank in this clime. BTW, her Rowan CashSoft is in, and I'm with you, Nathania: YUM. Definitely plotting a sweater outta that stuff (I think it's named Hamilton), once I settle on a color choice. Stewart has great new buttons, too ~ some blue glass ones almost made me rethink putting a zip in the Ribby. She's closing next weekend to attend MdS&W ~ gotta love an LYS proprietor dedicated to bringing the goods on home for those who can't make the trip.

2. Speaking of that almost-cardi, the blocking is done, and without incident ~ other than when the kittens pulled draining pieces from the bathroom sink. All's been behind closed doors since, although I will have to go in there and sleep eventually. Wee C napped in her ladybug bean bag this afternoon instead of my bed. . .

3. Garden is again presentable; I can't believe I forgot to take the before picture, which would have made an after shot worthwhile. We loaded several Supercans with grass, weeds, shrubbery trimmings and climbing rose vines, then spread bunches o'mulch and filled four pots with perennials. And that's just the front and side of our little house; we left the bit behind the fence for another day. Assitance from Brotheman and the wee one, of course.

4. (Typepad is giving me fits, gotta say.) Non-Dulaan mitt gifted, and warmly (not to pun) received.

5. Poetry Month, almost. So here's one of mine, as promised, possibly selected because of my current scratched arms.


R is for rose
and reconciliation,
reunion. I open
my dictionary's 2,347 pages
to the first leaf of R
where an offering
caught in mid-bloom
lies pressed, its red
dried dark as blood. 
Two petals severed
from the bud cling
in the volume's gutter crease.
This is what remains
of the florist's dozen
that trimmed your apology.
What if I had refused
those blooms? Rejection
might have left the wild
primrose vine ringing
your cottonwood tree, untouched.
Instead, I kissed the scratches
on your wrists that rendered
its imperfect blossoms,
damp in newsprint. Flipping
to F, page 654, I find
its one flower, flawed
pink, for forgiveness.