By Christina Rossetti
Every valley drinks,
Every dell and hollow;
Where the kind rain sinks and sinks,
Green of Spring will follow.
Yet a lapse of weeks
Buds will burst their edges,
Strip their wool-coats, glue-coats, streaks,
In the woods and hedges;
Weave a bower of love
For birds to meet each other,
Weave a canopy above
Nest and egg and mother.
But for fattening rain
We should have no flowers,
Never a bud or leaf again
But for soaking showers;
Never a mated bird
In the rocking tree-tops,
Never indeed a flock or herd
To graze upon the lea-crops.
Lambs so woolly white,
Sheep the sun-bright leas on,
They could have no grass to bite
But for rain in season.
We should find no moss
In the shadiest places,
Find no waving meadow grass
Pied with broad-eyed daisies:
But miles of barren sand,
With never a son or daughter,
Not a lily on the land,
Or lily on the water.
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We had a bunch of plans for Saturday, together and separately -- a local concert, a holiday party, an ice skating show -- but we also have relatives coming next week and more relatives coming the week after, and lots of logistical complications (some very good, like Maddy has a new job downtown, but it means we have to work out how to retrieve her so we can take her and her sister Noelle to see their grandparents in Pennsylvania on a weekday evening in rush hour traffic).
So we did a bunch of shopping chores and a bunch of home chores, and since it's supposed to rain the entire day tomorrow like it did today, it will be more of the same. We watched a couple of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel episodes after the poutine we had for dinner with the curds we got at Mom's Organic Market, and now we're watching the hilarious Matt Damon SNL with the reject ornaments. From the Brunswick Heritage Museum, the regional Maryland railway in miniature:
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