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 dealing with rain, even though the garden is very dry.
I also a have trouble dealing with this potential war we are in. This constant shelling of shit, this assault of assholes, this tyranny of turds.
I go into my garden to hide in the green of the hosta or the wave of the ferns. I would become the robin if I could or the wild plum or even the grass that I weeded out yesterday between the primroses to escape this madness.
The poet, Sara Teasdale, fortunately died before the start of the second great war and we are now looking at a third great war that could happen anytime when we all will surely be annihilated.
So sorry for the sadness. Cold does this to me. I will go now into my garden not to hide but to repair a leak in the hose with duct tape. I know there is no escape. There is only endurance. Would that I could find some sturdy binding to hold it all together. The effort though, without help, is often just too much.