One of my azalea plants decided to stop waiting and has produced three white flowers. They look rather forlorn amid the scruffy leaves and twigs. I suppose any bees that show up will be happy to have them, though— once the upcoming gray and chilly week is over.
The next three days are expected to bring another three inches or so of rain, and then more rain will arrive toward the end of the week. It will be at least ten days before I can sit on the back porch with a cold drink again, but at least my yard is still getting watered for free. That will partly offset the expense of running the furnace on those cold nights we'll be having.
But how my mind blanks anymore. What was that thought that grazed my brain and flew from sight? I'll probably never know. All that's left is the shape of its absence.
by A. S. J. Tessimond
The clock disserts on punctuation, syntax.
The clock's voice, thin and dry, asserts, repeats.
The clock insists: a lecturer demonstrating,
Loudly, with finger raised, when the class has gone.
But time flows through the room, light flows through the room
Like someone picking flowers, like someone whistling
Without a tune, like talk in front of a fire,
Like a woman knitting or a child snipping at paper.