By Toni Morrison
Someone leans near
And sees the salt your eyes have shed.
You wait, longing to hear
Words of reason, love or play
To lash or lull you toward the hollow day.
Silence kneads your fear
Of crumbled star-ash sifting down
Clouding the rooms here, here.
You shore up your heart to run. To stay.
But no sign or design marks the narrow way.
Then on your skin a breath caresses
The salt your eyes have shed.
And you remember a call clear, so clear
“You will never die again.”
Once more you know
You will never die again.
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Not an eventful Tuesday here. Having ignored all the terrible news as best as I could over the weekend while I was out of town, I clicked through to Toni Morrison obituaries (which were depressing enough) and came across all the depressing, enraging stupidity surrounding the shootings and it was just so disheartening. Paul had a midday doctor appointment and came home early to finish work here, after which we went to Giant together.
We got home just as huge evening thunderstorms hit, which made two of our cats hide down the basement. We watched the season finales of The 100 (good episode but I am so ambivalent about a seventh season with no Kane or Abby) and Blood and Treasure (the whole season has been goofy but fun and this was no exception). From the VMFA exhibit A Return to the Grand Tour, micromosaic jewelry souvenirs designed for European travelers:
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