By Wallace Stevens
But not on a shell, she starts,
Archaic, for the sea.
But on the first-found weed
She scuds the glitters,
Noiselessly, like one more wave.
She too is discontent
And would have purple stuff upon her arms,
Tired of the salty harbors,
Eager for the brine and bellowing
Of the high interiors of the sea.
The wind speeds her on,
Blowing upon her hands
And watery back.
She touches the clouds, where she goes,
In the circle of her traverse of the sea.
Yet this is meagre play
In the scrurry and water-shine,
As her heels foam—
Not as when the goldener nude
Of a later day
Will go, like the centre of sea-green pomp,
In an intenser calm,
Scullion of fate,
Across the spick torrent, ceaselessly,
Upon her irretrievable way.
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Tuesday was not as pretty a day as Monday, but it was warmer in the morning and the drizzle didn't arrive until afternoon. I spent the morning working on a jewelry project while waiting for laundry to finish, did some work around lunch, then went out in the afternoon before the rain to walk. The new Giratina form arrived in the late afternoon, so I did a couple of raids, too.
Since The Flash was a rerun (and its star apparently got caught vaping on a plane), we watched Bumblebee. It may be damning with faint praise for me to say it was my favorite Transformers movie; I liked the girl-mechanic-coming-of-age story, could not have cared less about the Decepticons attacking Autobots on Earth. Here are some spring photos with a goddess for color:
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