T.

As the jt-lg recedes, so do its letters....
In that odd space where I haven't quite
settled in to where I am. Restless.
Can't set myself down to read. Messed around
a bit with a new set of pastels, took out some
of my rice paper, my leaf-and-petal-shot papers.
And put them all away again.

Now Paul and I play "Name That Poet"
and read aloud to each other, first William Stafford
then Stevie Smith: The River God.
I am not good at this game.
I am under-read, over-fed, not quite dead.
--she said.

__

Dropped a triangular piece of Connemara marble
on my foot in an attempt to retrieve my copy
of Irish Traditional Cooking, By Darina Allen.
Mostly I spilled my unoaked South African
Chardonnay, in a crystal glass, and howled.
Paul ran for ice, refilled my wine, offered Aleve.
No. That's not right. I refilled my own wine,
in a second glass. And then Paul opened
a bottle of French red, and we ate leftover
chicken rice soup, and listened to Ronnie Drew.
We had it all, we had the best of times....