By Wendell Berry
The terrapin and his house are one.
Though he may go, he's never gone.
He's housed within, from nose to toe:
A door, a floor, and no window.
There's little room, the light is dim;
His furniture is only him.
He doesn't speak what he thinks about;
Where no guest comes, a thought’s a shout.
He pokes along; he's in no haste:
He has no map and no suitcase;
He has no worries and no woes,
For where he is is where he goes.
Ponder this wonder under his dome
Who, wandering, is always home.
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My friend Alice and her son were on the Maryland side of the Potomac River on Wednesday for an appointment, so afterward they came over and we went out to lunch at the mall (where we ran into my father and one of his friends) and took her son to GameStop and ourselves to Sephora, though I only got a freebie perfume with reward points. We hung out at my house for a while before they headed home and I worked on Iceland photos.
Paul had taken the first two Men in Black movies out of the library (the third is on demand), and since one of them is due on Thursday, we watched them in the evening. I did not remember the second much and the first only marginally, so that was a lot of fun, though I'm not sure why so many people think the first is so brilliant that the new one must be scoffed at; I enjoy them both. Here are this weekend's turtles from Brookside Gardens:
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