|decaying cucumber pod by Hilary|
The boys've been sick all day, like dueling banjos.
One fever under control, the other raged, 103/104
ending us at the doctor
'It's the flu,' he said, "Five days. Just manage
the symptoms, nothing else you can do'
They're asleep now and we are well on our way, but
still on our feet, enjoying moments of peace. My wife
with her back to me, hands in the sink, drains wash water
from dinner dishes & I lean on the bar, it's lip etching
grooves at the base of my spine, where the needle
rides the record, but grants no music
except what we make, back lit in several hundred
Christmas lights on the tree, it enters the corner of my eye
in small movements, like tiny ballerinas
taking stage the first time,
tentative movements, a swirl
of multicolored sheer fabric
she turns as it goes low, nearly to
the ground then swells to our shoulders,
dips once and rises around the hanging light, stops
before our eyes in a wobble, 'hello' up, up, through
the nutcrackers, along the wall---no larger than half
a pea, a soap bubble
one of our boys coughs
a rattling wet cough & we lose sight
as it slips into the shadows at the edge
of the infinite.
Over at dVerse, I am still hosting our look at a detail in our writing and after yesterdays post, I said I would try something a little less heavy, but I am at the whims of what comes out of my pen and heart. Captivated as well by Hilary's pictures still as well. I appreciate my visit by the soap bubble last night, it was a highlight among the sickness.