Thursday, January 14, 2010

When I'm this tired . . .

It's best not to say what I'm thinking. Best to just to frap the storm sail and call it a win some, lose some, lost this one day. Call the paw prints gleaming in the lamp light across the erstwhile clean wood floors by the euphemism reserved for such occasions--owned by dogs, well-lived in look, and let it go at that. Best to cover the tenth pile of laundry I've pulled from the washing machine today with a sheet to keep the cat hair away: (owned by cats, it will be there in the morning). Tie square knots in all the loose ends: send the phone to voice mail, tell my mother I'll call her in the morning, batten down the bird feeders because even the squirrels are ahead today, call in the culprits and put them to swabbing in silence. Not a word! Not a word. I don't care who did it. Just clean it up.

Then heave the day. Cleave to bed and blanket. Row to the shores of sleep where I might find a shiny stone or two to slip into the pockets of my long purple pajamas to take with me into the next dawn.

Sunset over my garden--taken by Sam

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