But my sleeping schedule is totally catawampus, and I don't know how I will be able to be awake from eight o'clock in the morning until perhaps as late as six o'clock in the evening tomorrow, which is the gaping window of opportunity with which AT&T has provided itself for sending someone out to check into the problem with my telephone line. Fortunately I have not lost service today, though the Internets connection was down for awhile last night during the heaviest part of the rain. It began raining again just after sunset this evening, but it's a light rain so far and isn't interfering with the line. Still I should make this entry brief, just in case. I hope that whatever gets done tomorrow will fix the problem for good— or at least until the next time squirrels decide to use my telephone cable as a chew toy or a shortcut between my roof and the utility pole.
by Edith L. Tiempo
(The sea is warm and tidy
In my body
In jug and jar
Wide water wandered far.)
Late afternoon is best.
Clear droplets shower
From the sprinkler and the hose,
And the garden is drenched,
The porous soil quenched
From the dripping spatter
Of the begonias and the tall rose-
Stems; sprays of sanderiana
Lift up each gorgeous corolla,
And moist on the ground in bordered rows
The pied buds of portulaca.
The sun is in the west.
I think of a horse somewhere
In some pouring rain,
His heat steaming, his skin bathed cool,
Of my dog giddy in puddle water,
Of sparrows and their tweet and flutter
On a bird bat; of an empty lair,
The hairy hotbed of the deer,
Who trots off through the green lane
To the knife-cold edge of the pool,
Meeting his bowed shadow there,
Tongue and throat drenching, slaking
In the drowsy forest.
It is the sea in us,
From the deep cobalt
Brine, through tortuous
Springs, waters that roam.
Rising as vapor, cloud, and mist,
Falling as showers and rains
To lave our breathing
Lest we parch and perish,
For we crawled off the sea bringing
The cupful in our veins
And the memory to cherish:
Life and color
Gurgling in the garden hose.
The sea in us
(It has been years and years),
The old mark of our water home:
Salt in our wounds, the wet salt
Of our body's humors.