The portions were, as usual in our ever more gustatorially extravagant world, too large, but not large enough to split into two meals, and rather than have a leftover mini-meal taking up the limited real estate in my refrigerator I just ate the whole thing. That, of course, left me too stuffed all afternoon to go do anything else. But I needed to tackle the laundry anyway, so that's what I did with the rest of the afternoon. I'll try to make it to the Goodwill store for the Sunday tag sale.
A tentative promise has appeared in the weather forecast. There is now a 40% chance of rain on the first day of March. That's little enough, and terribly late, but at this point I think we have to take what we can get. I hope we do get it, as the sense of desiccation in these parts is powerful. Last spring's extravagant displays of wildflowers don't seem even a remote possibility this year. Walking back from the store this afternoon I grew so warm I'd have removed my jacket, had my hands not both been full with bags of food. There is something terrible in a balmy February. It's going to be terrible all of this week.
The Manger of Incidentals
by Jack Gilbert
We are surrounded by the absurd excess of the universe.
By meaningless bulk, vastness without size,
power without consequence. The stubborn iteration
that is present without being felt.
Nothing the spirit can marry. Merely phenomenon
and its physics. An endless, endless of going on.
No habitat where the brain can recognize itself.
No pertinence for the heart. Helpless duplication.
The horror of none of it being alive.
No red squirrels, no flowers, not even weed.
Nothing that knows what season it is.
The stars uninflected by awareness.
Miming without implication. We alone see the iris
in front of the cabin reach its perfection
and quickly perish. The lamb is born into happiness
and is eaten for Easter. We are blessed
with powerful love and it goes away. We can mourn.
We live the strangeness of being momentary,
and still we are exalted by being temporary.
The grand Italy of meanwhile. It is the fact of being brief,
being small and slight that is the source of our beauty.
We are a singularity that makes music out of noise
because we must hurry. We make a harvest of loneliness
and desiring in the blank wasteland of the cosmos.