By Pier Paolo Pasolini
Desert flower, flowers from the garland
of our houses where families
bicker in the open air,
you browse on the stones of the day,
simple, while field and sky
like sky and sea
appear all around.
Rustic desert flower,
no evening streaming with lights.
No shepherds drenched by dew,
slender fire of the hedges.
No marsh-marigold, bilberry, swamp-violet
or Florentine iris, or gentian, no angelica,
no Parnassian grass or marsh-myrtle.
You’re Pieruti, Zuan
and tall Bepi with his walking-sticks of bone,
slim at the helm of his wagon,
pasture flower.
You become hay. Burn, burn,
sun of my town, little desert flower.
The years pass over you,
and so do I, with the shadow of the acacia tree,
with the sunflower, on this quiet day.
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The weather on Thursday was absolutely perfect -- not too warm even in the sun, just starting to smell like fall. In between things I had to get done, I took a walk at the park, went to the mall for a Mewtwo raid, and when Paul got home, we went to Giant and CVS and I made him let me go back to the park in pursuit of a Foongus.
We watched most of the Titans-Jaguars game, which was not very exciting, since the Orioles were already blowing it to the Blue Jays and I hadn't figured out what movie I might want to watch instead. Here are some photos of shopping at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire, including the Joan of Arc paintings in the chapel bookstore:
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