I am so happy that this short week has come to an end. I still haven't completely recovered from Independence Day festivities. Tired. All the time. Tomorrow, it's another parade and more fireworks in the evening. If I survive this weekend with my sanity intact, it will be a miracle.
I'm sort of craving silence and calm. A good book or movie. Gin and tonic to drink. No plans. No obligations. Just rest. A quiet time for the soul.
That sounds like a little piece of Saint Marty heaven.
by: Tracy K. Smith
The voice is clean. Has heft. Like stones
Dropped in still water, or tossed
One after the other at a low wall.
Chipping away at what pushes back.
Not always making a dent, but keeping at it.
And the silence around it is a door
Punched through with light. A garment
That attests to breasts, the privacy
Between thighs. The body is what we lean toward,
Tensing as it darts, dancing away.
But it's the voice that enters us. Even
Saying nothing. Even saying nothing
Over and over absently to itself.