Healing to occur
Surroundings shift and change
Climb a Hill
Slide into the Valley
dievca returned a $1000 item, only to spend $500…
but, that is the danger of visiting SoHo~
the final push
off the bottom
and leaves a trail
blurs into the beginning
with a gasp
dievca’s final push through an insane week concludes at 4 pm EDT
What’s in the sack? What’s in the sack?
Is it some mushrooms or is it the moon?
Is it love letters or downy goosefeathers?
Or maybe the world’s most enormous balloon?
What’s in the sack? That’s all they ask me.
Could it be popcorn or marbles or books?
Is it two years’ worth of your dirty laundry,
Or the biggest ol’ meatball that’s ever been cooked?
Does anyone ask me, “Hey, when is your birthday?”
“Can you play Monopoly?” “Do you like beans?”
“What is the capital of Yugoslavia?”
Or “Who embroidered that rose on your jeans?”
No, what’s in the sack? That’s all they care about.
Is it a rock or a rolled-up giraffe?
Is it pickles or nickels or busted bicycles?
And if we guess it, will you give us half?
Do they ask where I’ve been, or how long I’ll be stayin’,
Where I’ll be goin’, or when I’ll be back,
Or “How do?” or “What’s new?” or “Hey, why are you blue?”
No, all they keep asking is, “What’s in the sack?”
“What’s in the sack?” I’m blowin’ my stack
At the next one who asks me, “What’s in the sack?”
Oh no. Not you, too!
What’s in the sack?
dievca’s wallet, phone, schedule book, lip balm, Master’s Cuffs and Straps – would you like to see?
dievca’s happy there aren’t bag checks
for the NYC subway system. 🙂
There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.
William Cullen Bryant
Redolence is the way something smells.
dievca always pauses on her way to work to enjoy the redolence of the flowering crabapple trees. The trees are in blossom earlier this year than last.
The word redolence almost always refers to the very best odors and scents.
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
The Force That Through The Green Fuse Drives The Flower