In Portraits in Seasons
By Danielle Pafunda
As a feral thing would. As a dead leaf
whose crunch she herself hears, whose
buggy interior floods the sidewalk. Beamy
the world, yet a blank all the same.
Where you've tucked your pen into your notes,
I tuck my fingernail, burned and cursed and
shut tight my eyes. I tuck my feet up like a girl.
In this corner, warm milk fall of light something
far from revealing its bone-blank eyes, that is,
the eyes downcast in every portrait, shaded
the ribbon a bright blue furl across the gaze,
the peculiar mother, her arm around a naked toddler
the fall of light. Betrays nothing. The book in
hand, betrays. As a feral thing would,
I shred its binding and burn through it for warmth.
Paul sprained his knee while he was out running this morning, so he worked from home and kept it elevated and put ice (well, a package of frozen peas) on it and scared the cats by using a crutch to get around. Needless to say, this sucks for him. I did laundry and some writing and went to the store and eventually went to pick up Adam after his psych and physics finals, taking Daniel with me so we could all stop at the mall for frozen yogurt and the Bath & Body Works 75%-off-everything sale (most of the current scents in their old packaging are included, so you can get Cashmere Glow and Twilight Woods body wash for $3 -- and I did).
I saw a bunny while walking today and the weather was nice, not too cold. After dinner I insisted on watching Breaking Dawn, Part Two which is finally on cable -- hey, I have watched the first four Twilight films, I wanted to see how it ended (LIKE TOTAL CRACK, worth it to see Michael Sheen and Lee Pace enjoying themselves so much, and why does Tumblr hate Bella Swan so much? SHE CAN MAKE SONGVIDS IN HER HEAD). Then we watched Nashville, which is just as soapy though the women are slightly more independent. From the US Botanic Garden's DC in miniature made from nature, plus one New York landmark: