First frost on the grass, the boys have just left for school, the dog is barking at the bin men outside.
I’m wearing hand knitted socks on my feet for the first time this autumn and a cozy shawl around my neck, neither Lilli nor I fancy going for a walk just yet. When I opened the door she sniffed the chilly air and turned back in. My kind of dog. Maybe I should knit her a coat…
I have a bit of a bonkers week ahead and am trying to get my head around the idea of having to feed children and husband decent food at different times almost every day. It’s the thing that drives me most mad… even more than the constant taxi driving people around: the logistics of food.
Let’s have a a good poem and get on with the week, shall we?
Black Oaks (by Mary Oliver)
Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,
or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays
carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
the push of the wind.
But to tell the truth after a while I’m pale with longing
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen
and you can’t keep me from the woods, from the tonnage
of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.
Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a
little sunshine, a little rain.
Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
one boot to another — why don’t you get going?
For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.
And to tell the truth I don’t want to let go of the wrists
of idleness, I don’t want to sell my life for money,
I don’t even want to come in out of the rain.