By Mary Ruefle
I begin
to talk to violets.
Tears fall into my soup
and I drink them.
Sooner or later
everyone donates something.
I carry wood, stone, and
hay in my head.
The eyes of the violets
grow very wide.
At the end of the day
I reglue the broken foot
of the china shepherd
who has put up with me.
Next door, in the house
of the clock-repairer,
a hundred clocks tick
at once. He and his wife
go about their business
sleeping peacefully at night.
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After being out every day this week, I had to crack down and get things done on Friday, so it was not an exciting day. I did a bunch of chores, I went out in the chilly weather to do a raid with a bunch of PoGo friends, we had dinner with my parents who suggested that we watch Henry VII: The Winter King, which we did and really enjoyed (I'd forgotten what a piece of work he was in comparison to his more famous son).
Then we started watching Hunters, but Amazon Prime kept glitching -- the Roku works fine with Vudu, Disney+, Netflix, HBO, and everything else, but Amazon Prime is super-temperamental -- so we turned it off and switched to On Demand to watch Toy Story 4, which I'm sure we enjoyed a lot more than we'd have enjoyed Nazi assassins. From Green Spring Gardens last weekend, orchids and other flowers in the conservatory glasshouse:
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