boxofdelights

So national poetry month 2013 is over. This makes 16 poems I've posted, which is not bad. Newt is as brave as a barrel full of bears, and would totally have devoured that pirate. Today he picked a fight with Aiko over who got to eat the eggshells out of the compost bucket. (The correct answer is Nobody, which of course Aiko knows, but he came over to investigate what Newt was doing and Newt took it as a challenge. Fur flew.)

If you want to play, say so in a comment. I'll give you an age and you answer the following questions about you at that age.

wild_irises gave me 30.

I lived in: the house in Masonville, which was a nice little place with ten acres of pasture, with a creek in the middle.

I drove: a Chevy Nova, which served us well for many years.

I was in a relationship with: I had a husband and a toddler and the best dog ever and two cats and three horses. Life was good.

I feared: the death or serious illness of someone I loved. I had pretty much stopped fearing nuclear war and ecocatastrophe. I didn't think they were less likely, I just didn't have the energy to worry about them.

I worked at: I taught computer programming in the Continuing Ed department at CU-Boulder, which was the perfect job for me. I was really good at it, I worked a few Saturdays a semester, and it paid $70 an hour.

I wanted to be: a better teacher. A storyteller. A writer. Someone else's mother. Someone else's lover.


Today's poem is Turbulence, by Adrienne Rich.

This post by Doctor Science made me think of this poem.



Not that spring is that color in Colorado. Here, the vultures are back, the purple mustard's spicy scent has filled the air, and now a spring storm is giving all the buds a big wet heavy kiss. Spring might linger for as much as a month, but if she is in an especial hurry, she has checked the boxes and may make way for ninety-degree days.

When I say Mary Oliver you probably want to hear Wild Geese, so you should pop over to Melusina's. But then come back and listen to Hum because it's really good too. "It's love almost too fierce to endure."

This poem is often attributed on the web to Mary Oliver, but a search in Google Books locates it in The way it is: new & selected poems, by William Stafford.

An old favorite from when my babies' feet were still nommable.

Dulzura, by Sandra Cisneros