||[Aug. 30th, 2010|12:00 am]
Thunder filled the afternoon, but only a few brief showers fell. The lawn will not be turning green, but for a few hours the air carried that unique scent made of dry grass and rain-damp soil. Hose water can't create it, but only late summer rain. Hose water smells of pipes, but rain smells of sky. It was a nice looking sky to smell of, too, first all tumbling gray masses, then swaths of blue butting white thunderheads, and then spilling sunlight down to the wet trees, making them glitter. I don't suppose I'll see that again for a while. Tomorrow it's back to baked earth and the smell of heated pines, and probably smoke from mountain wildfires. It was nice while it lasted.|
by Anne Sexton
Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be as good as fingers.
They can be as trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.
Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.
Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren't good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.
But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.