Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation. |
L'aura del campo 'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos' ♣ Federico García Lorca ♣ L'aura del campo. A breeze in the meadow. So it began the last day of Spring, 2005; on the 16th day of the month of Light of the year 162. This is a supplement to my daily journal written to a friend, my muse; notes I do not share. Here I will share what the breeze has whispered to me. PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS! I LV COMMENTS! On a practical note, in answer to your questions: IN MEMORIUM VerySara passed away November 12, 2005 Please visit her port to read her poems and her writings. More suggested links: These pictures rotate. Kåre Enga ~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop, The Fish |
"My poodle made me drop my paper in a puddle" That's what I told them. That's not what happened. I love rain. I love puddles. As a small child I jumped into every one I could find. Slushy in winter or frog-filled in Spring. Didn't matter. I jumped. They splashed. I got yelled at... every time. But not yesterday. I was wearing my new tennies and a good pair of jeans. I was on my way to school with Puddles (that's my puppy; she always follows me as far as I let her). It had rained overnight and the streets were puddle-luscious. I was careful. I really was. I skipped around them, jumped over them. No problemo. I was in a good mood as I came to the corner of Cameron and Colorado. There was a small puddle. I looked both ways and jumped. And... that's when it got weird. I was mid-air when a hand reached up and grabbed me, pulled me into ocean depths until I felt like I was drowning. Fish were ogling me and a frog mouthed my name and then... then a merman grabbed me and dragged me into his cave. He served me sushi and lukewarm tea while he lectured about global warming... as if I cared. "You'd better", he warned me. Then... I dunno... I came to, completely soaked, spitting out water as Puddles barked at... nothing. There was nothing in the 2" deep puddle. Mrs. Janicki came by, asked if I was okay and helped me up. I thanked her then told Puddles to go home in spite of her whining. I grabbed my book-bag. It was soaked too. At school, my English teacher, Miss Mueller, was not amused with my soggy essay on local myths. So I told her, "My poodle made me drop my paper in a puddle." I mean... "I was grabbed and almost drowned by a mermen" just didn't sound right. So I blamed Puddles. She won't mind. © Kåre Enga (11.juni.2017) [174.131] /30:11.1/ 81.196 |