1. Good news from my sister and friend whom I wrote about a few days ago, with the heart valve issue (though I may not have mentioned that detail): She met with the PA today, and "it seems to go without saying that I would repair this." Well, yeah! Obviously! She won't know for sure until she meets with surgeons, but my fingers are so very crossed that this is a viable option.
2. Dinner at our local Mexican place, Jose's—and as much as I ever want to try something different, I had my usual: a chile relleno and chile verde tamale, no beans, no rice. It's my comfort food.
3. My regular Thursday meeting with one of my two poetry groups. This one is generative: we read (or otherwise interact with) a prompt; usually it's a few selected poems, on some theme—today's was insects. Then we spend half an hour writing. Finally, we share. I am not a poet, not really, but I can't say how much I appreciate being in the embrace of actual poets. I may feel awkward reading my usually rather clichéd attempts, but I learn, and the challenge is good for me. Here's mine from today—and remember, I scratched it out in 30 minutes, it is far from finished; and I'm not a poet—do not judge me. But for a bonus, I also include a few of the paintings by the Dutch painter this attempt is dedicated to. And I will end with a real poem by a real poet, one of today's prompts. So keep scrolling.
Still Life
For Jan van Kessel, 1626–1679
When did you notice that first butterfly—
a gaudy swallowtail was it,
or pale chequered skipper?
and decide you had to capture it,
not skewered by a pin,
but in rich oils.
In your garden, in the woods,
among meadows of springtime flowers,
you waited and watched,
sketching the tiny jagged feet,
the furred antennae,
exquisite patterns of crimson
burnt orange
royal blue.
Then, carefully, you arranged
currants, a thistle,
sprigs of rosemary,
on a plain white ground...
and these creatures,
so jewel-like, so briefly
in this world.
Holding them in your gaze,
you caressed them into being
with the tip of your brush,
as if to keep them from scurrying off,
from launching into flight.
For a moment you, like them,
unaware of death.
Design
by Robert Frost
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth—
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth—
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?—
If design govern in a thing so small.
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