By Louise Bogan
At night the moon shakes the bright dice of the water;
And the elders, their flower light as broken snow upon the bush,
Repeat the circle of the moon.
Within the month
Black fruit breaks from the white flower.
The black-wheeled berries turn
Weighing the boughs over the road.
There is no harvest.
Heavy to withering, the black wheels bend
Ripe for the mouths of chance lovers,
Or birds.
Twigs show again in the quick cleavage of season and season.
The elders sag over the powdery road-bank,
As though they bore, and it were too much,
The seed of the year beyond the year.
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I had another mostly-work-and-chores day, made more complicated by belated jetlag that made me sleepy pretty much all afternoon. I wrote a review of Star Trek: Voyager's "Faces", in which Roxann Dawson was as good as I'd remembered but the writing really wasn't, and I finished folding the laundry, though a whole bunch is not yet put away.
Adam's girlfriend came over after their calculus exam and came to my parents' house for dinner, where we celebrated Adam' birthday early since he has two classes and a lot of work to do on Monday which is the actual day. Talked briefly to Daniel, who is getting his computer all ready before he starts work. Here are some more pics of Seattle's Alki Beach:
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