This month is National Poetry Month. To celebrate, The New York Review of Books has chosen 30 poems from the archives and will be posting one daily. I am in love with today's.
Never stops. That's about all
We can be ever sure of, love,
Even more sure than the roast
You are bringing out the oven.
It's Sunday. The congregation
Files slowly out of the church
Across the street. A good many
Carry Bibles in their hands.
It's the vague desire for truth
And the mighty fear of it
That makes them turn up
Despite the glorious spring weather.
In the hallway, the old mutt
Just now had the honesty
To growl at his own image in the mirror,
Before lumbering to the kitchen
Where the lamb roast sat
In your outstretched hands
Smelling of garlic and rosemary.
I have another flower picture for you.
And Dad's Beehives. There were lots of Bees flying around, but you can't really see on the picture.