By Robert Graves
Under this loop of honeysuckle,
A creeping, coloured caterpillar,
I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray,
I nibble it leaf by leaf away.
Down beneath grow dandelions,
Daisies, old-man's-looking-glasses;
Rooks flap croaking across the lane.
I eat and swallow and eat again.
Here come raindrops helter-skelter;
I munch and nibble unregarding:
Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm.
I'll mind my business: I'm a good worm.
When I'm old, tired, melancholy,
I'll build a leaf-green mausoleum
Close by, here on this lovely spray,
And die and dream the ages away.
Some say worms win resurrection,
With white wings beating flitter-flutter,
But wings or a sound sleep, why should I care?
Either way I'll miss my share.
Under this loop of honeysuckle,
A hungry, hairy caterpillar,
I crawl on my high and swinging seat,
And eat, eat, eat—as one ought to eat.
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My PBS station didn't start showing Oklahoma till 9:30 so I'm typing this while listening to Hugh Jackman sing and try to make palatable this fantasyland where the conflict has always been between farmers and cowboys and there were never any Native Americans. So I'm distracted. Paul worked from home so we had lunch together while I was finishing a review of Deep Space Nine's "In Purgatory's Shadow".
Adam had the first day of indoor track, since the cross country season ended earlier in the week, though his knee is bothering him so he couldn't run; I passed him walking, along with a couple of deer and a hiding bunny. We had dinner with my parents, then came home for the aforementioned Oklahoma. Here are some prognostications of winter weather from local meteorologists:
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