It is my brother's birthday. The monarch butterfly which my mother discovered as an egg on a milkweed leaf last week and tenderly brought inside to be sheltered from hungry birds and fed on fresh-picked milkweed eclosed and flew free this afternoon, she hopes to join its kindred in migration; she showed me pictures of the transparent empty chrysalis, the wings like black and gold stained glass. My physical situation which had been cautiously mending has rather abruptly cratered. And Toni Morrison died. I go back and forth between feeling philosophical about the constant changing of the universe and thinking that a small amount of stability really wouldn't hurt anyone.
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- 1: On the edge and off the avenue
- 2: We just ended up clutching at the empty rituals like gamblers clutching long odds
- 3: If one year's back on my shoulder
- 4: In my time on earth, I said too much, but not nearly, not nearly enough
- 5: Every song we sing and every kind of place
- 6: A wreck of possibilities, a volatility of stars
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