NO CONTRACTIONS TODAY, but a slow movement of fluid continues. I took K to Zilker Park where we hiked, played and looked at coots and buffle heads. Hoa slept, studied, cleaaned. Outside the days have been warm and sunny. The bullbine blooms to distraction. The moon has been full or close to it these nights wide and brilliant with an unusual candor cast by movement of light through faint, high clouds. Soon another child will join us. Now the evening's quiet. We wait as K watches TV and makes paper chains to put up around the house. Yellow and red, some already hang in the thresholds of our rooms. Drinking oolong tea, I hear the fridge humming. This is what's happening. A narrative is a span of mind on any given occasion. Mostly the mind fails us. It ruins what it touches. Its weak, human proposals cast a dark shadow on the earth. But whatever it achieves on behalf of poetry redeems it a little, I guess. I walk around, go places. See things and accommodate my senses according to these environments. Weighted, the center lies deep in an unknown region but it touches everything. Headlights pass through our windows. Quiet now in the house.
Posted by Dale at April 30, 2004 02:32 PM