In flows a peach

Letting the day go how it wants, also a poem I read every morning for a week.

soon

Instead of rest today I attended my home, took care of what needed caring, swept out some corners, spoke to each plant and tried listening too, tossed away several bags of dead weight, baked bread, ate chocolate, smoked weed and cleaned the bathtub, spent time visiting Mimsy, stretched my body and when I stretched my body I noticed how good it felt to do it, said farewell forever to a tradescantia with whom I had been through a lot, told the calathea I was proud of her, rearranged the mantle, re-piled some piles of books, played the accordion for 15 minutes, tussled with the puppy, shut down the terrace for the winter ahead, placed two jars of dried lavender on either side of a lovely new old mirror my mother-in-law gave me before she left her home of twentysome years for the last time, decided to do laundry, didn’t do laundry, dreamt of the desert, deep-cleaned the humidifier, strung Christmas lights around a sweet Norfolk pine I’m looking after for a friend, made my home lighter, made my home lovely, made my home somewhere I want to be and breathe, shared bread, sipped rum. Read a poem.

There are days it feels good to slow down and be still. There are days I want to be with everything, a little bit at a time.

Whatever kind of day you want, I hope you find what you need.

Here’s that poem I told you about.

---

I Wanted to Make Myself like the Ravine
by Hannah Gamble

I wanted to make myself like the ravine
so that all good things
would flow into me.

Because the ravine is lowly,
it receives an abundance.

This sounds wonderful
to everyone
who suffers from lacking,
but consider, too, that a ravine
keeps nothing out:

in flows a peach
with only one bite taken out of it,
but in flows, too,
the body of a stiff mouse
half cooked by the heat of the stove
it was toughening under.

I have an easygoing way about me.
I’ve been an inviting host —
meaning to, not meaning to.
Oops — he’s approaching with his tongue
already out
and moving.

Analyze the risks
of becoming a ravine.
Compare those with the risks
of becoming a well
with a well-bolted lid.

Which I’d prefer
depends largely on which kinds
of animals were inside me
when the lid went on
and how likely they’d be
to enjoy the water,
vs. drown, freeze, or starve.

The lesson: close yourself off
at exactly the right time.

On the day that you wake up
under some yellow curtains
with a smile on your face,

lock the door.
Live out your days
untroubled like that.

by C.P. Silver