By Harriet Levin
Where in the church of the mind,
the mind's sawn down trees,
where hardwood's stacked up,
quartered and milled where under the nave
the painting is placed,
in the left-hand side aisle,
the viewpoint from which one approaches the altar
do the putti recover us and give us wings?
The figures are over life size,
their heart beats thump through the church
in the direction of the brushstroke,
drift at the edge of fields left to the shape it takes.
Sometimes it's rain the reach of rain.
Sometimes it’s purer, less mixed. Jubilance.
I feel it running down the hill in the rain
running so as not to get wet but getting wet.
Pause to tie my shoelace,
as if, tying it, I might actually pull together—finding it undone.
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We woke on Friday to really pretty snow -- icing all the branches and bushes, a dusting on the cars, but next to nothing sticking to the roads, which is the best sort of snow for adults who need to go places, though I'm sure the children of our county were disappointed not to miss more school. I spent the morning finishing a review of Voyager's "False Profits" and keeping a kitten warm (or vice versa).
We watched an episode of Bones, had dinner with my parents, came home for Sleepy Hollow (I like the weird Benjamin Franklin science better than the supernatural), then watched Suffragette, which was a lot better than its reviews -- it's whitewashed and a bit didactic, but the acting is terrific and the story's still moving. From the Delaware Museum of Natural History, dinosaur eggs and the dinosaurs who laid them:
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