rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Going shopping today was a bit hectic, as a vast crowd appeared to be shopping for Thanksgiving dinners. They were probably trying to beat the even bigger crowds that will appear later in the week. Shopping frenzy must be contagious, because I ended up buying more stuff than I had intended to buy. Shopping frenzy is also confusing, as I failed to buy a couple of things I had on my list. I'll be glad when the holiday (aka War on Christmas) season is over.

But I didn't get rained on, and I didn't get any sun in my eyes so it didn't matter that I'd forgotten to take my sun glasses. The clouds have cast their shade over everything all day, except for a few minutes now and then when the sun managed to shed a few beams through a brief opening. The dim light made the autumn colors that now abound all the more appealing. There will probably be more rain later tonight, and off and on for the next few days. It probably won't clear up until Friday night, and when it does it will get very cold.

One of the things the shopping frenzy caused me to buy was a pumpkin pie. It is too big for me to finish before it starts going stale, but it was such a bargain that I couldn't resist. Naturally I had to buy fake whipped cream to go on top of it. I'd have bought real whipping cream, but the last time I tried to whip some with my aged egg beater I cramped my hand something fierce. Maybe I'll get an electric egg beater some day. Not anytime soon, though. After returning from shopping I discovered that I've made an error in my bookkeeping, and have about forty dollars less than I thought I had in my account. Had I known before, I'd have offered greater resistance to the shopping frenzy. But I intend to enjoy that pie anyway.

Sunday Verse


by R. S. Thomas

Evening. A fire
in the grate and a fire
outside, where a robin
is burning. How they both
sing, offering a friendship
unacceptable to the hand
that is as vulnerable to the one
as it is treacherous to the other.

Ah, time, enemy of their music,
reducing fuel to feathers, feathers
to ash, it was, but a moment ago,
spring in this tinder: flames
in flower that are now embers
on song's hearth.
The leaves fall
from a dark tree, brimming
with shadow, fall on one who,
as Borges suggested,
is no more perhaps than the dream God
in his loneliness is dreaming.


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