I’m home again, and in front of a computer with a solid connection, so here I poem. We are camping tomorrow and the next night, and I’m so excited to be without wires for a few days. The cabin was good, so very good, but the fact that internet is possible there is disturbing, and truth be told, a few days off from actually posting these suckers is going to be good for me. Plus, the place we are going is awesome and the girls are going to blow their tops.
Today’s poem comes from a long drive home, and from my daughter’s elaborate, decades-in-the making pranks that she plotted recently.
The jokes are something and maybe everything, maybe we understand this, as wee as we are were once, as wee as awe, as wee as when we knew nothing of the dull and disappointing days, as wee as when we knew only of busy delight, wee as when it was a long way off from the days when the bright delight that came rare and preciously like a gem, precious in brief shudders bonedown to the toes,
Maybe this is all a pillow of dust, maybe it is all aged and mellow dust, maybe it all means as much as a knocknock joke told by a very small creature. When facing the whatisthis, why not be armed with delight, why not conjure the tricked into digging for exploding treasure? Why not play a trick on future, because we’re not that fond of it anyways.
There was an ancient sign, a greying arrow, spun downwards by big winds and grown into the tree, pointing straight down into the talc, and she planted there a bottle disguised as beer, filled with baking soda and vinegar and ready to explode upon opening.
Take that, you curious future.
Gracious. Happy Sunday, pretty, pretty Sunday, poem peeps.