By Federico García Lorca
Translated by John K. Walsh and Francisco Aragon
Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue-like eyes, or the accent
the solitary rose of your breath
places on my cheek at night.
I am afraid of being, on this shore,
a branchless trunk, and what I most regret
is having no flower, pulp, or clay
for the worm of my despair.
If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross, my dampened pain,
if I am a dog, and you alone my master,
never let me lose what I have gained,
and adorn the branches of your river
with leaves of my estranged Autumn.
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We got thunderstorm and flood warnings from early in the morning, so I compressed everything I had to do out of the house early in the day, including a quick walk to see baby bunnies and the irises whose color is now replacing that of the azaleas, which are turning green. I was not too busy to fire off an email to the FCC, but they're not listening to us anyway. Adam came home right after school to go film a movie for his AP Literature class, which involved getting a scene with a lawn mower completed before the pouring rain started. I embellished a lamp and folded laundry while watching Wednesday's episode of The Americans, whose season, I fear, is Not Going To End Well, but at least it's still on next week.
We had a late dinner waiting for Adam to get back from filming his movie, then we watched the episode of DS9 that I need to review on Friday, followed by the Elementary season finale, which was not a happy note to end on in many ways though there was some great dialogue and Watson is always awesome. The Pacers regrettably eliminated the Wizards from the basketball playoffs; at least the Orioles won in Kansas City after not playing so well against Detroit. Friday night is prom night, so tomorrow I will be driving Adam back and forth various places before 36 kids take a bus to dinner, the dance, the after-prom party, and the after-after-party. I have no good segue to show off these Maryland Zoo prairie dogs:
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