|Curses, Foiled Again
||[Apr. 16th, 2017|09:01 pm]
The rain didn't begin until afternoon, but it quickly grew so intense that my shopping trip had to be postponed. I will make another attempt tomorrow afternoon, which, after a rainy morning, might be between storms. The rain will return tomorrow night and could include another thunderstorm. If the thunderstorm come early and I'm still out shopping, I might get struck by lightning instead of just getting wet. |
Probably not, of course, but just as someone will beat the high odds and win the lottery, someone will sometimes beat the higher odds and get fried by nature's electricity. I've never won the lottery, but then I've never bought a ticket. One need not buy a ticket to get zapped. Nature is a non-optional gamble.
If I am not dead from lightning by then, I'll be going to the chiropractor Tuesday. The five week gap between appointments has left my neck pretty touchy, and I have to be careful when moving about, so I'm eagerly anticipating the adjustment. Perhaps it will make the last half of April more pleasant than the first half was.
I seem to be running late tonight, despite the two hours I gained by not going shopping. I'm going to have some ramen for dinner, as my original plan was to buy tonight's dinner at Safeway. The best laid plans, etc., April April April.
If They Come In The Night
by Marge Piercy
Long ago on a night of danger and vigil
a friend said, why are you happy?
He explained (we lay together
on a cold hard floor) what prison
meant because he had done
time, and I talked of the death
of friends. Why are you happy
then, he asked, close to
I said, I like my life. If I
have to give it back, if they
take it from me, let me
not feel I wasted any, let me
not feel I forgot to love anyone
I meant to love, that I forgot
to give what I held in my hands,
that I forgot to do some little
piece of the work that wanted
to come through.
Sun and moonshine, starshine,
the muted light off the waters
of the bay at night, the white
light of the fog stealing in,
the first spears of morning
touching a face
I love. We all lose
everything. We lose
ourselves. We are lost.
Only what we manage to do
lasts, what love sculpts from us;
but what I count, my rubies, my
children, are those moments
wide open when I know clearly
who I am, who you are, what we
do, a marigold, an oakleaf, a meteor,
with all my senses hungry and filled
at once like a pitcher with light.