Poem for Thursday and Festival Colors

My Einsteinicity
By Lynne Thompson

Let y equal any number of fathers.
Let x equal the numberless planets.
Let y minus x equal long nights of fog
and let x plus y equal hydra & incubus.

If y is > x, why do all my convictions gape?
If x is > y, does “father” just mean nightcap?
When x ÷ y, we set sail on a windjammer.
When y ÷ x, watch for the banshee, the jinn.

Or let x be replaced by a midsummer night
and y by—well, you can never replace y but
by morning y will lollygag near half-moons:
Odysseus sailing to Ithaca, mildew as it rots.

And a b is no mere theory of relativity: it is
helter-skelter materfamilias, Ma Barker, and
Rebekkah, the mother who deceived. Not
Sarah who couldn’t conceive nor the Mother

of all of Nature: the black tern, the kittiwake;
plants ornamental, baroque; the cumulous,
the nebulosus; and yet, mother-of-pearl and
ice-cold, tiger’s-eye and monkey in the middle.

Let’s say a b is a % of all the love in the world
or synonymous with do you love me now that
I can dance? Let’s agree that a is the salsa or
paso doble and b is always always the beguine.

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Thursday was a gorgeous summer day: sunny, breezy, and mid-70s. I did a bunch of work in the morning so we could take an early walk after lunch and enjoy the beach -- surprisingly crowded for a weekday -- and the dock -- surprisingly surrounded by geese, who usually stay further out in the lake while we have the ducklings in close. I also e-signed the documents that formally put our house in Maryland under contract. 

We ate dinner early so I could chat with those of my Thursday fannish friends who could make it, then we watched this week's Silo, which is riveting and perfectly paced; I'd watch Rebecca Ferguson in almost anything but it's a real pleasure to see her in something with a twisty substantive plot. Then we finished Cunk on Britain and started Cunk on Shakespeare, both genius. Some more fabulous crafts from Edmonds Arts Fest: