I can’t believe it’s been over two weeks since I’ve lived a poem. Well maybe I have lived a few and just not posted about the experience.
Tomorrow it will be cold (10C) for May after days of 25C. I have trouble dealing with the cold when it should be warm and I always have trouble with rain even though the garden is very dry.
I also a have trouble dealing with this war we are in. This constant shelling of shit, this assault of assholes, this tyranny of turds.
I have gone into my garden and tried to hide. I would become the robin if I could or the wild plum or even the grass that I weeded out yesterday between the primroses.
The poet, Sara Teasdale, fortunately died before another great war and a third great war that could happen anytime now, when we all will surely be annihilated.
So sorry for the sadness. Cold does this to me. I will go now into my garden and repair the leak in the hose with masking tape which my daughter bought for me yesterday from Dollarama. There is no escape. There is only endurance. Would that I could just find some sturdy binding to hold it all together. The effort without help is often too exhausting.