Did you come by when I was out?
Someone came knocking at my wee small door.
Someone came knocking I’m sure, sure, sure.
I listened, I opened,
I looked from left to right,
but not there was a stirring in the still dark night.
Walter de la Mare’s was one of the first poems I memorized and it still delights me. (He also wrote horror stories and was a bank official. How odd.)
Life and I’ll surely slow down for a bit soon. Mid-next-week looks calm.
Once, several years ago, Colleen in Manitoba said summers are too busy with gardening to blog and I didn’t understand it at the time. Ah, I get it now.
Life maintenance and 1/4 of what you want to get done seems to take all the time. Pick and choose, pickaxe and chip.
We have garden beds. I have a largely functional shoulder, chest and back again. I’ve felt outright normal for about 2 weeks now. How extraordinary normal is.
Around the 25th I’ll have blocks of times to get thru all the back burner stuff for a while.
But on the other hand, after a 3 year wait, we have poppies blooming. Each of the last 2 years we were away when they were going to blossom. They take a long time in bud almost popping.
Heavy rains last night made them look far less like crepe paper than they did the day before. But even torn and a little past prime, they look fabulous. And more buds are thick with their own waiting.