Today was the Sunday munch, which was fun, followed by running out of gas on the scooter on the way home, which was less fun, but not a big deal.
We got the side bed we wanted to put in done today, and drew made me a small desk I needed.
We saw friends at the munch, talked to a new person or two, immediately decided whether or not I liked them – one yes, one no – and prepared for another week, basically.
Except now, it’s time for bed, so I’m going to leave with a poem, because it’s my blog and I can.
Sara Teasdale is my all-time favorite poet, and I have memorized her poetry for 40 years now. This has always been one of my favorites.
I love too much; I am a river
Surging with spring that seeks the sea,
I am too generous a giver,
Love will not stoop to drink of me.
His feet will turn to desert places
Shadowless, reft of rain and dew,
Where stars stare down with sharpened faces
From heavens pitilessly blue.
And there at midnight sick with faring,
He will stoop down in his desire
To slake the thirst grown past all bearing
In stagnant water keen as fire.