flying poem
like a woman
hanging her laundry on the clothesline,
i hang my words
on the lines of my page.
heavy, frightened words,
spread fear in my room.
they shrink
when exposed to the sun
of the reading eye.
my words
dry up.
the next day
my brother, tired of
gazing at those fainting letters,
throws the book
in the drawer.
the sun sets behind
the eyelid.
the words in the drawer
swelter and stew in their sweat.
my little niece smells them.
she opens the drawer.
the words fly out.
the poem is free.
it lands in nests of migratory birds.
they sing it to the passing clouds.
by mosab abu toha (born 1992)
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breakfast at hector's . . (i just missed a photo of the man walking away outside . . he had been tying his ascot in the window reflection).
i had a spanish omelette, half of which is in the fridge here at home. i can no longer eat the huge portions that are served in restaurants. sometimes i wish they offered "half" plates. how does anyone have room for appetizer and/or dessert?
morgana's photo of the forsythia blooming at harley's mom's house . .
and mixed with holly and another branch (not sure of the name) in a vase in the sun room. (such a pretty home.) (hmmmm . . i think it's forsythia; it looks a little different from the plants here in the eastern states.)
and marisa sent a photo . . they had snow yesterday! (she's in vermont)
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