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rejectomorph

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An Eden Lost [Jun. 26th, 2011|11:56 pm]
rejectomorph
I kept hearing a lawn mower, but let the sound drift to the back of my mind. Then I went to another room and the sound got louder. I looked out a window and my brother in law was in the back yard, mowing the lawn. I had though he was going to come over and mow the front lawn at some point (it's dandelion central this year,) but he arrived and saw how long the back lawn had gotten and decided that it was in greater need of mowing.

Farah and the kittens took refuge in the shed, which is in the gravely part of the yard beyond the jasmine hedge. They must have been astonished when the mowing was over and they had reclaimed their territory. All those kittens have ever known of that part of their world— which is well over half their world— was human-knee-high grass. Now it isn't even kitten-knee-high.

They used to so enjoy romping through it, chasing one another. They would hide in it and leap out to attack another kitten passing along the narrow walk. Now the whole outside world beyond the north half of the yard, where there is no hedge, is exposed to view. On the other half, the jasmine hedge itself is now clearly visible from kitten-eye level.

It must seem very strange to the kittens. It's certainly strange to me. I had gotten used to the grass being long, and enjoyed watching it wave when a breeze caught it. It was like a tiny bit of prairie, buzzing with tiny flying insects in the afternoon light, and the light that played across it was almost as entertaining to watch as the kittens are. I'll miss that tall grass. Probably not as much as the kittens will, though.

Something else I miss is dinner. I think the mower must have hypnotized me, or maybe it was just the fact that I couldn't open the windows while it was running, and thus the house got too warm, because I fell asleep on the couch and didn't wake up until after eleven o'clock. I'm going to end up with a midnight supper, and even that will probably be delayed. I really don't feel like eating dinner after a five hour nap. I might as well wait an hour, make pancakes, and call it breakfast. Strange day.




Sunday Verse


From the Garden


by Anne Sexton


Come, my beloved,
consider the lilies.
We are of little faith.
We talk too much.
Put your mouthful of words away
and come with me to watch
the lilies open in such a field,
growing there like yachts,
slowly steering their petals
without nurses or clocks.
Let us consider the view:
a house where white clouds
decorate the muddy halls.
Oh, put away your good words
and your bad words. Spit out
your words like stones!
Come here! Come here!
Come eat my pleasant fruits.

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