It's been really great spending so much time reading these last couple of months....you'd think I didn't have anything else at all to do! But I'm starting to have some real angst over some other projects that have gone by the wayside. We just got bunk beds for my boys, and I'd like to have quilts that match. I bought enough material for two, finished one, and the other has languished in the closet for two years now. Here it is time to put my baby in a big boy bed and the quilt is still not made. Also, I'm a year and a half behind on my scrapbooking. I don't like it when I start to feel stressed over something that is supposed to be fun!!
Anyway, I'm well ahead on the TBR challenge, and have only one more book on the Chunkster Challenge (Half of a Yellow Sun, which I picked up at the library today and expect to make slow progress on this month!). So I'm just saying that you might not see too many new posts from me this month as I try to knock out some other things.....but I'll be back soon!
To entertain you, here's a great poem that I ran across earlier today on Bryan's blog:
A Color of the Sky
by Tony Hoagland
Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,
driving over the hills from work.
There are the dark parts on the road
when you pass through clumps of wood
and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,
but that doesn’t make the road an allegory.
I should call Marie and apologize
or being so boring at dinner last night,
but can I really promise not to be that way again?
And anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing
in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.
Otherwise it’s spring, and everything looks frail;
the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves
are full of infant chlorophyll,
the very tint of inexperience.
Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio,
and on the highway overpass,
the only metaphysical vandal in America has written
MEMORY LOVES TIME
in big black spraypaint letters,
which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.
Last night I dreamed of X again.
She’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets.
Years ago she penetrated me
but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,
I never got her out,
but now I’m glad.
What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.
What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.
What I thought was an injustice
turned out to be a color of the sky.
Outside the youth center, between the liquor store
and the police station,
a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;
overflowing with blossomfoam,
like a sudsy mug of beer;
like a bride ripping off her clothes,
dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,
so Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.
It’s been doing that all week:
and throwing it away,
and making more.