Wishful |
[Jul. 3rd, 2016|08:36 pm]
rejectomorph
|
Several consecutive days of excessive heat, a tiresome and rather disappointing trip to the stores, and a foreshortened period of sleep last night, have conspired to leave me exhausted and befuddled. It's possible that my fairly high recent consumption of sugar, mostly in the form of iced drinks, has contributed to my state, but said consumption being a byproduct of the excessive heat I shall blame that on the heat as well. I should perhaps go back to drinking unsweetened, iced, decaffeinated tea with a bit of half and half in it.
Whatever the cause, I find myself lacking the energy to otherwise discuss the weather, the birds I saw this afternoon, the unwillingness of the overheated feral cats to give any attention to said birds, the coming of dusk, the lack of any specific plan for dinner, or the fact that English people will begin murdering one another on television within the hour. I am, in short, pooped, and I'll be lucky if I don't fall asleep hungry in the midst of the upcoming video slaughter and never find out who done it. Oh, heat! Will you not leave us be?
Wishful Sunday Verse
Rain
by Hone Tuwhare
I can hear you making small holes in the silence rain
If I were deaf the pores of my skin would open to you and shut
And I should know you by the lick of you if I were blind
the something special smell of you when the sun cakes the ground
the steady drum-roll sound you make when the wind drops
But if I should not hear smell or feel or see you
you would still define me disperse me wash over me rain
|
|