By Patricia Spears Jones
We have encountered storms
Perfect in their drench and wreck
Each of us bears an ornament of grief
A ring, a notebook, a ticket torn, scar
It is how humans know their kind—
What is known as love, what can become
the heart’s food stored away for some future
Famine
Love remains a jewel in the hand, guarded
Shared fragments of earth & air drift & despair.
We ponder what patterns matter other than moons and tides:
musical beats—rumba or waltz or cha cha cha
cosmic waves like batons furiously twirling
colors proclaiming sparkle of darkness
as those we love begin to delight
in the stars embracing
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Tuesday was another hot day, but I was able to spend it mostly in the shade -- first at home doing chores in the morning, then meeting younger son for lunch at Kitanda (acai and Brazilian bread) between his eye doctor appointment and mine, and then at the ophthalmologist who gave me the good news that the surgery I had a couple of months ago to avoid glaucoma appears to have been successful.
I talked to my Trek group and we watched the All-Star Game (yay AL) around the season finale that better not be the series finale of The Acolyte, which I really enjoyed but which did not answer all its questions. Now we're watching Armageddon, which I got in the mood for from accidentally catching the end on AMC. Peaks we saw from the summit of Crystal Mountain, including Rainier, Adams, Baker, and St. Helens:
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