Moss

 

Moss on the boots and moss on the brain these days. It's still too early to attack the yard cleanup, but I miss outdoor time. The gym routine has been good for me, but it mostly replaced those long neighborhood walks in fresh air.

Only so many hours in the day, and today I'll spend some getting the tax documents organized for our accountant. Tomorrow morning my shift at The Cafe, where everyone is complaining about the menu change. Thursday, a dentist appointment. Early Friday, maybe get some overdue labs done. Skipping my morning coffee with half n' half then being poked with a needle always puts me in a foul mood.

Anyway, that's what passes for fun in February.

 Here is a poem that has appeared on the blog more than once:

To Boredom, by Charles Simic

I’m the child of your rainy Sundays.
I watched time crawl
Over the ceiling
Like a wounded fly.

A day would last forever,
Making pellets of bread,
Waiting for a branch
On a bare tree to move.

 The silence would deepen,
The sky would darken,
As grandmother knitted
With a ball of black yarn.

I know Heaven’s like that,
In eternity’s classrooms,
The angels sit like bored children
With their heads bowed.