By Jack Spicer
Coming at an end, the lovers
Are exhausted like two swimmers. Where
Did it end? There is no telling. No love is
Like an ocean with the dizzy procession of the waves' boundaries
From which two can emerge exhausted, nor long goodbye
Like death.
Coming at an end. Rather, I would say, like a length
Of coiled rope
Which does not disguise in the final twists of its lengths
Its endings.
But, you will say, we loved
And some parts of us loved
And the rest of us will remain
Two persons. Yes,
Poetry ends like a rope.
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We had 2-5 inches of snow forecast for Monday, but stayed just below the snow line, so while my in-laws in Pennsylvania got half a foot and my friends in Baltimore and Frederick got several inches, we had temperatures just above freezing and rain all day. I worked and did laundry and watched the Super Bowl commercials I missed during bathroom breaks on Sunday (Hiddleston/Strong/Kingsley British villains hahahaha) and only went out to pick up Adam from school after track practice. The cats were happy because Paul worked from home, though there was a great deal of activity causing them distress just outside the back windows:
The TV was on most of the evening but I was distracted trying to get things done: I'd fail a quiz on the details of Almost Human's plot and I wasn't engaged enough to care about the Big Thing That Wasn't Even a Surprise on Beauty and the Beast (which is sure to be canceled after this season, according to Zap2It, and I think my biggest regret is that it wasn't canceled after last season so it could be one of those shows I remember with great fondness as ending too soon instead of one I remember as running out of steam). Then we caught up on Downton...I'm not sorry I watched the Super Bowl denouement, such as it was, instead. I wish someone would do a Granny and Isobel highlight reel!
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