"But no, I was out for stars...."

Coming back to life, albeit extremely slowly, after the equivalent of four fifty-hour work weeks in July, most of it the last week. Besides work, there was the catering for my mother-in-law's memorial to coordinate, cookie platters to bake, decorate & assemble; a eulogy to present at the memorial, a paperwork nightmare with Bank of A. in an effort to make my house payments sane, a divorce to endure, one five-hour visit to the ER (to the tune of $20k), a booth at a weekend arts & crafts fair to staff, and my neighbor's garden to water while she's off tending her late father's estate.

That last bit, the watering, has actually been more a respite than a chore, but tricky to fit in considering the unpredictability of the sun here plus my schedule. But there have been raspberries tucked away between flowers, and the occasional tiny strawberry. Her garden is a joy, abundant with perennials, and there are generally at least two cats present for company.

At this hour, just past sunset, I sit on my balcony, in view of Lake Washington and the Cascade foothills and, if I stand on tiptoe, the Olympic Mountains as well.

A tent hangs airing from a neighbor's cherry tree.

A kayak sits upended two doors down, on saw-horses.

Through someone's open window, I can hear a small group singing "Happy Birthday".

There's an unfinished fence project across the alley and, somewhere close, someone is grilling beef.

Out front, a couple of dads throw balls to children, the air alive with their laughter. The new rabbi's house is quiet.

My back gate swings wide, worn past latching, open to all the world.

Come in.


(Somewhere in a box is the sheet music for this that my sister L. "borrowed" from girls glee in tenth grade. It's a Robert Frost poem set to music -- we'd sing it and play the piano -- always on a summer evening much like tonight)....

Come In

As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music -- hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.

Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.

The last of the light of the sun
That had died in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush's breast.

Far in the pillared dark
Thrush music went --
Almost like a call to come in
To the dark and lament.

But no, I was out for stars;
I would not come in.
I meant not even if asked;
And I hadn't been.

--Bob Frost