By Anne Myles
I think of the Russian serving spoon
that lay in my mother’s drawer, then mine
in one city and another: aged metal,
gray-toned, pointy-headed like a bird
with a thin graceful neck and widening tail.
The silver spoon nests in its darkness,
in the story I’ve lost, who it came from—
the wealthy grandmother or the poor one
who nonetheless recited Russian poetry;
which bag or chest it was once thrown in,
or carefully bundled, with what hope or fear.
It flew to America, shining relic, outlasting
the Cossack swords, the bits and spurs
that jingled terribly on the galloping horses.
How many peaceful dinners has it seen,
grasped by my mother’s hands, now mine,
as TV clatters the news of our time?
The spoon keeps itself, innocent and mute,
even when the old poetic dreams are gone—
now when I no longer picture just a bird
but a missile, and think of all we can’t outrun.
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Winter returned on Tuesday -- we woke up to snow. It didn't stick, since the temperature hovered above freezing, but the wind chill was in the 20s and it was very cold when we took a walk, though a couple of bunnies were out anyway. At least the neighborhood daffodils haven't opened yet, despite how many we saw at Tower Hill Botanic Garden over the weekend:
I did a bunch of computer stuff while watching the Orioles comeback win, and watched DS9's "Equilibrium" with those of my group who could make it after dinner. Then we caught up on Monday's Watson (finally it has momentum now that it's been canceled) and now we're watching this week's Daredevil and I wish the things I love outweighed the things I don't.
