Sunday, October 27, 2013

Poem for Sunday and Black Hill Park

By Carl Adamshick

It is nice to be without answers
at the end of summer.
Wind lifting leaves from branches.

The moment laid down like something
in childhood and forgotten, until later,
when stumbled upon, we think:
this is where it was lost.

The sadness isn't their sadness.
The sadness is the way

they will never unpack the rucksack
of happiness again.

They'll never surface as divers rising
through leagues of joy, through sun
willowing through the bottom half of waves.

They'll never surface again.
Again and again,

they will never surface.


I'm on my last nerve, so will keep this brief. I didn't have a bad day: Adam went to cross country practice running along the C&O Canal, then needed to be picked up and wanted to go to Tyson's Buffet with friends from the team, so we drove them, stayed and had Chinese food for lunch. Then we dragged Adam away from his friends and took him to Black Hill Regional Park, not for serious hiking (he'd done lots of exercising, I was exhausted) than to see the leaves turning. There were some geese and lots of little birds, so it was very nice.

Again I couldn't tell you what was on TV except that Graham Norton had a very funny Chris Hemsworth batting eyelashes at Paul McCartney and now the Red Sox have a tied game in the top of the 8th. Will be at a memorial service tomorrow so I'm not sure I'll be posting tomorrow night; hope everyone is having a peaceful weekend and will try to catch up with things next week.

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