It's been a day of contrasts. Bright and dark. The morning began with drizzling rain; the sky cleared, and for a few hours it was orangey bright. I've just turned on the bubble-light bouquet,
the liquid in the stems surges: yellow, violet, and blue.
Anyone who comes to see us will have to pass through the moths that cling in hearts and half-heart shapes to the glass and clapboards. The camera's flash drew more, confusing them.
It's soup weather. I've more or less followed Julia Child's recipe for lentil soup but used the orange and brown lentils I had in the pantry rather than running out to buy French lentils, though I will do the French thing: puree some of the thick mash in the blender. J. came home from his walk-in-the-dark around Fresh Pond, and a stop at the market for a baguette. I just broke off the small crusty tip--can't call it a heel; it's too small; OK, an infant's heel. I love the crusty bits and do not understand why some people do not eat the crust.
Earlier today, driving home from the Bagel Bards, a group of poets who meet every Saturday morning at Au Bon Pain in Davis Square, and a trip afterwards to the Good Will with Ms. M., Ms. S. and Mr. B. I thought of a way to begin a poem I've been mulling over. I wasn't thinking about poetry as I drove, just watching the road, and the line came. It might work.
PS: At Goodwill, M. looked at me intently and said, "You're happy." Yes, I love to grub in thrift shops. She does not and had the good sense to leave me and Ms. S. to our romping, discriminating, greedy, grubbing, while she went back to Au Bon Pain for something to eat. Mr. B. was downstairs, so I can't say anything about his shopping habits.
