On. On. Stop. Stop.
By Saskia Hamilton
In the old recording of the birthday party,
the voices of the living and the dead
instruct twelve absent friends
on the reliable luxury of gratitude.
The celebrated one hands out presents.
The dead dog barks once. We
take one another's hands and follow their lead,
past the garden wall, out to the land
still stripped by winter. Those gone
do not usurp those here. We keep
the warning close, the timbre of their voices
mingling with the sounds of traffic
going much faster to its destinations.
Is it the size or the scale of the past
on the small reels of the cassette?
Someone gives her a new pot, which,
she exclaims, is too great a luxury for her.
Someone's missing who can convert
the currencies. The old treasure
was dropped in the furrows
to await spring, with rings and pennies
and florins and other denominations
from those pockets and fingers.
It was not a terribly eventful summer solstice, though the weather was lovely. I wrote and posted a review of Deep Space Nine's absolutely terrible "The Muse", took a ride with younger son to the bank (we went to the one in Potomac Village so he could get some driving time and took the long way home), and rearranged the DVDs since I got last season of Warehouse 13 while Amazon.com had it under $15.
I had a five-bunny, eight-chipmunk walk in the afternoon, plus another three bunnies and two deer while driving to my parents' house for dinner. When we came home I was in the mood to watch A Midsummer Night's Dream in honor of the date and because of Kline-Pfeiffer-Bale-Friel-Everett et al, which the kids watched as well (both of them can recite various parts). Some local chipmunks: