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Reset Sixteen, Day Sixty-One [Feb. 7th, 2021|10:06 am]
rejectomorph
Arrangements have been made for a shopping trip Monday. Saturday I slept weird again, but for about six hours from eleven in the evening until a bit after five this morning, so at least it's gone sort of in the right direction. I'll probably need another nap sometime today, but with luck I'll be able to sleep somewhat later Monday morning and still be functional when I go out that afternoon. There might be dreams though. When I woke this morning there was a dream fragment in my head, and it was odd; I was walking and stumbled when I stepped on my shoelace, and I looked down and saw that I was wearing a slipper on my right foot and an untied shoe on my left. I have no idea what it means, if anything, but there it was and it's still stuck in my head. A portent?

It is to be warmish today, and only slightly cooler tomorrow. Rain is still expected Thursday, but the chances are up to 75%. A little sliver of winter that might survive the premature spring. I encountered a bee in my back yard Saturday. It hovered inches from my face, like a taunt. I dare you to wave me away Spring says. I will sting you!.




Sunday Verse



Why Is the Color of Snow?


by Brenda Shaughnessy


Let's ask a poet with no way of knowing.
Someone who can give us an answer,
another duplicity to help double the world.

What kind of poetry is all question, anyway?
Each question leads to an iceburn,
a snownova, a single bed spinning in space.

Poet, Decide! I am lonely with questions.
What is snow? What isn't?
Do you see how it is for me.

Melt yourself to make yourself more clear
for the next observer.
I could barely see you anyway.

A blizzard I understand better,
the secrets of many revealed as one,
becoming another on my only head.

It's true that snow takes on gold from sunset
and red from rearlights. But that's occasional.
What is constant is white,

or is that only sight, a reflection of eyewhites
and light? Because snow reflects only itself,
self upon self upon self,

is a blanket used for smothering, for sleeping.
For not seeing the naked, flawed body.
Concealing it from the lover curious, ever curious!

Who won't stop looking.
White for privacy.
Millions of privacies to bless us with snow.

Don't we melt it?
Aren't we human dark with sugar hot to melt it?
Anyway, the question—

if a dream is a construction then what
is not a construction? If a bank of snow
is an obstruction, then what is not a bank of snow?

A winter vault of valuable crystals
convertible for use only by a zen
sun laughing at us.

Oh Materialists! Thinking matter matters.
If we dream of snow, of banks and blankets
to keep our treasure safe forever,

what world is made, that made us that we keep
making and making to replace the dreaming at last.
To stop the terrible dreaming.
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