The pine pollen plague continues, too, so tonight I'll probably sneeze and snort and cough and scratch for hours. It makes concentration difficult. I think I'll just try to find something fluffy on television to distract me, as far as I can be distracted. I just hope that whatever ponds of puddles are breeding all these mosquitoes dry up soon, or that they are visited by mother of all bat hells tonight.
Now for some ointment.
Small Ghost Poem
by Lawrence Raab
Say it's the leaves, the way they rustle.
Say it's a shadow, the scraping of a stick.
Childhood friends, dead and buried—
they're out there now, small ghosts
who never knew when enough was enough.
One who ran into a car, one who tripped
on a stone and fell on a stick that poked
through his heart. Lost and forgotten,
they've gone into the world to become
the snap of a branch, the skittering
of leaves. What are they whispering?
It's late and it's cold. They want to come in.