And yet the evening appears to be proceeding in its accustomed fashion, suffering no untoward perturbations. The cats are not running backwards, and the morning birds are not waking and singing. Perhaps everything will be alright, even if it turns out that I have indeed remembered to buy everything I'd intended to buy. Yet I'm sure I'd be able to relax a bit more if I were to recall some item that I will need and fail to find among my stores this week. It's so stressful, waiting for an unknown and possibly nonexistent shoe to drop.
Sunday Verse
Whoever You Are
by Al Purdy
If birds look in the window odd beings
look back and birds must stay birds.
If dogs gaze upward at yellow oblongs
of warmth, bark for admittance
to hot caves high above the street,
among the things with queer fur,
the dogs are turned to dogs, and longing
wags its tail and turns invisible.
Clouds must be clouds always, even if
they’ve not decided what to be at all,
and trees trees, stones stones, unnoticed,
the magic power of anything is gone.
But sometimes when the moonlight disappears,
with you in bed and nodding half awake,
I have not known exactly who you were,
and choked and could not speak your name. . .
