rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


A sunny day has intervened, making it seem as though May had arrived. March will return tomorrow. The poppies flourish, despite the battering they took from yesterday's hail, and the jasmine hedge is sporting an abundance of buds. I don't know how they will do in the unaccustomed chill, but warm days are bound to come shortly— unless a volcano explodes somewhere and darkens the sky, of course. I'm eager for jasmine-scented nights, and therefore would strongly disapprove of any such untoward volcanic activity.

I had the company of Alger, his sister, and his mother all afternoon. Portia sat in the window, giving them dirty looks and the occasional low growl. They took no notice. I still have no idea if there are new kittens about somewhere, but it seems unlikely. Mother cats with kittens to look after would not have spent so much of their time lazing in the sun.

The coming rain will probably bring a fresh growth of foxtails, just when I'd gotten rid of them. Too bad I don't have any feral goats.

Sunday Verse

A Blade of Grass

by Brian Patten

You ask for a poem.
I offer you a blade of grass.
You say it is not good enough.
You ask for a poem.

I say this blade of grass will do.
It has dressed itself in frost,
It is more immediate
Than any image of my making.

You say it is not a poem,
It is a blade of grass and grass
Is not quite good enough.
I offer you a blade of grass.

You are indignant.
You say it is too easy to offer grass.
It is absurd.
Anyone can offer a blade of grass.

You ask for a poem.
And so I write you a tragedy about
How a blade of grass
Becomes more and more difficult to offer,

And about how as you grow older
A blade of grass
Becomes more difficult to accept.

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