By Robert Francis
Words of a poem should be glass
But glass so simple-subtle its shape
Is nothing but the shape of what it holds.
A glass spun for itself is empty,
Brittle, at best Venetian trinket.
Embossed glass hides the poem of its absence.
Words should be looked through, should be windows.
The best word were invisible.
The poem is the thing the poet thinks.
If the impossible were not,
And if the glass, only the glass,
Could be removed, the poem would remain.
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My Monday morning involved laundry, some computer work, and a couple of phone calls. It was a beautiful low-70s day, so in the afternoon we walked to the beach, where we were greeted by ducks under the mistaken impression that we might have food for them and by eagles sitting in trees between bouts of fishing.
We watched the Orioles win, which was greatly preferable to watching the Mariners lose. Then we ate burgers for dinner and now we're watching more Poldark since it has managed a couple of episodes without a sexual assault. Here are some of my favorite Chihuly pieces at the Museum of Glass and Bridge of Glass in Tacoma:
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