||[Apr. 3rd, 2011|11:59 pm]
It's probably allergies, but for the last couple of days I've felt like I'm coming down with the flu. Portia wonders why I'm sleeping so much. She tries to wake me up, but I just pull the blanket over my head until she either goes away or curls up next to me to join the napping. Cats are versatile. If they can't get outside to chase birds, they'll just sleep and dream about chasing them. I have strange dreams about cars rolling downhill backward with no drivers in them. I'd rather have Portia's dreams.|
The Man Who Wouldn't Plant Willow Trees
by A.E. Stallings
Willows are messy trees. Hair in their eyes,
they weep like women after too much wine
and not enough love. They litter a lawn with leaves
Like the butts of regrets smoked down to the filter.
They are always out of kilter. Thirsty as drunks,
They'll sink into a sewer with their roots.
They have no pride. There's never enough sorrow.
A breeze threatens and they shake with sobs.
Willows are slobs, and must be cleaned up after.
They'll bust up pipes just looking for a drink.
Their fingers tremble, but make wicked switches.
They claim they are sorry, but they whisper it.