By Rachel Wetzsteon
The park admits the wind,
the petals lift and scatter
like versions of myself I was on the verge
of becoming; and ten years on
and ten blocks down I still can’t tell
whether this dispersal resembles
a fist unclenching or waving goodbye.
But the petals scatter faster,
seeking the rose, the cigarette vendor,
and at least I’ve got by pumping heart
some rules of conduct: refuse to choose
between turning pages and turning heads
though the stubborn dine alone. Get over
“getting over”: darks clouds don’t fade
but drift with ever deeper colors.
Give up on rooted happiness
(the stolid trees on fire!) and sweet reprieve
(a poor park but my own) will follow.
There is still a chance the empty gazebo
will draw crowds from the greater world.
And meanwhile, meanwhile’s far from nothing:
the humming moment, the rustle of cherry trees.
Adam came over on Sunday morning so we could drive up to meet Paul's parents at Simply Asia in Thurmont. We had lots of great Chinese food, briefly Skyped with Daniel who was on his way out early to go hiking with friends, attempted to teach my in-laws to use their Kindle and smartphone to watch sports, and eventually came home, where we thought about taking a walk but we were lazy and Adam wanted to get financial paperwork in order. We weren't ravenous for dinner after such a big lunch, so we had sandwiches.
In the evening we watched the new HBO film of Fahrenheit 451, which well acted (Shannon a bit on-the-nose) though it weirdly seems more focused on technology than propaganda as an enemy and in a funny twist, since Equilibrium and Blade Runner swiped ideas from the novel, swipes visuals in turn from those movies. Then we watched this week's Westworld (Samurai World with kick-ass women) and Madam Secretary (fairly didactic, but I love Elizabeth and it's a good anti-nuke reminder). From last spring's cherry blossom festival: