By John Ciardi
The top of a hill
Is not until
The bottom is below.
And you have to stop
When you reach the top
For there's no more UP to go.
To make it plain
Let me explain:
The one most reason why
You have to stop
When you reach the top -- is:
The next step up is sky.
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Poem for Dementordelta, who suggested it when I asked for a short one. The high points of my Thursday were 1) getting some ordinary drugstore control-top pantyhose to wear with my dress for the Bat Mitzvah, after concluding that Spanx and other shapewear was too effing expensive let alone too effing uncomfortable, and 2) the fact that in honor of Imbolc, Paul made Welsh rarebit for dinner. Rarebit is always a delight.
Otherwise my morning was dull and my evening deeply and profoundly sucked. Rather than belabor it (especially since much of it is not my crisis to discuss publicly), here are some photos of groundhogs from previous years. Hope those who celebrate Imbolc and Candlemas had lovely days, and those who were counting on Punxsutawney Phil to assure them that winter was about to end will keep in mind that "winter" here has meant insanely gorgeous weather like today's!
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