Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Poem for Wednesday, Winterthur, Birdman

The Blank of America
By Terese Svoboda

Who loots the dew or enjoins
a shadow to guard a tree?

The bird in the pie can't pretend
to arms, its claws rock

the coin in the crust.
The train's single eye

examines the tree that the pie
holds the fruit of,

its engine rasps past the bird
as if smoke lent its shadow.

And the dew? Surely
it's a dark gulp under a tall hat

the bird wings over.
Not noise, not the founding father's

nose. Repeat after me:
I solemnly swear:

I could swear otherwise,
my lips flying too.


Quickie, as we have had company -- the lovely Angela and Kevin -- to watch Birdman. We were weeks overdue for a movie night and they hadn't seen the Oscar winner, which holds up very well -- I still have a bunch of issues with the award-winning screenplay, particularly where female characters are concerned, but the directing remains exceptional and the editing almost beyond belief.

The only other news here anyway was continued gorgeous weather, which has brought out dogwoods, apple blossoms, violets, tulips, and the first pink azaleas, plus three bunnies and many squirrels and singing birds. We caught most of Forever, which is breaking my heart since next week's season finale will almost certainly be the end of the series. Flowers in Winterthur's enchanted woods:

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