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: I'm not related to anyone
- 2: You are a case of the vapours
- 3: And we're on the right side of the ground where they bury the bones
- 4: Now I feel like Kafka with a bad migraine
- 5: For when the heart's a sinking stone
- 6: Fierce as the Baltic sea
- 7: All the trees carve shards of light
- 8: Reflections coming through the radio, the telephone, the TV
- 9: I want what's true
- 10: I've been with him for seven years and now I'll lose my situation
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