By Maya Angelou
My man is Black Golden Amber Changing.
Warm mouths of Brandy Fine
Cautious sunlight on a patterned rug
Coughing laughter, rocked on a whirl of French tobacco
Graceful turns on woolen stilts Secretive?
A cat’s eye.
Southern, Plump and tender with navy bean sullenness
And did I say Tender?
The gentleness
A big cat stalks through stubborn bush
And did I mention Amber?
The heatless fire consuming itself.
Again. Anew. Into ever neverlessness.
My man is Amber
Changing
Always into itself
New. Now New
Still itself.
Still
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I had a very uneventful morning taking Paul to his colonoscopy, which went fine (though you'd think an office where people are going to be waiting two hours would have more comfortable chairs and places to plug in phones, laptops, etc.). Afterward, we came home for a very bland lunch and both worked a bit from here, then I went out for the first Latias raids at local parks where the weather was lovely.
We watched The Flash, which started better than it ended, and The 100, which has been even more unsettling than usual this season and I want to see more of the characters I care about. I got my preliminary ancestry DNA results and I am at least 87% Eastern European Jewish, with the rest from places in Europe where Sephardic Jews went, no surprise! From Garrett Park last weekend, some more azalea color:
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