Of the Surface of Things
By Wallace Stevens
In my room, the world is beyond my understanding;
But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four
hills and a cloud.
From my balcony, I survey the yellow air,
Reading where I have written,
"The spring is like a belle undressing."
The gold tree is blue,
The singer has pulled his cloak over his head.
The moon is in the folds of the cloak.
We spent most of Sunday in Hanover with Paul's parents, driving up with Maddy and stopping to pick up pizza on the way. It was a pretty uneventful visit: we skyped with Daniel and Adam and with David's family, ate brownies, and looked through old photo albums (I'd forgotten that Clair spoke at a service with the King of Norway and that there were photos of the Andersons at Dinosaur Land 40 years ago).
We had a late dinner while watching Bones -- the 100th episode flashing back to their first case and the prom queen horror movie episode -- and Maddy and I did some research for classes she wants to take in the area. Fortunately we missed most of the disaster that was the Nationals' 18-inning loss to the Pirates. Daisy, Cinnamon, and this sleepy blub Effie all helped me put laundry away when we got home: