A poem for Billy Collins

Billy Collins and the Balancing Act

I sit at my desk, trying to write.
Something. Anything.
Nothing comes.

My feet on the desk,
I lean back in my chair,
Trying to balance my coffee mug on a belly wave.
Too timid to remove my hand from the mug,
Wondering how I could explain to the world the coffee stains on my middle.

                                                     And there on my computer screen is a photo of Billy Collins.
                                                     He’s smiling, perhaps a hint of smirk in that smile of his.
                                                     Billy knows about my cowardice.
                                                     That bald-headed bastard, that charming smarty pants.
                                                     He knows.

Solitude

This is an oil painting by Cindy Baron, an artist who lives in Rhode Island. It is entitled Solitude. It's rather small 12 inches by 8 inches. I haven't seen it in person, just saw the image after another piece of her work caught my attention and I searched for more of her work.

I can't explain what happened to me but the instant I saw the painting tears spilled out of my eyes. What was it? Something that went from my vision, skipped through my brain straight to my heart.

Discovering the title of the painting was an after-thought, a delicious coincidence. Yes, solitude.

Funny, but I've had a recurring thought lately, an urge to go to Telluride. Alone. Maybe it's all connected.

Paul and Linda

Maybe I'm reading much too much into the image. I see innocent days. A blonde child, a shaggy dog, a jeep with the steering wheel on the right side. Paul and Linda by the sea wearing their wellies and socks, perhaps matching wellies and socks. The guard rail kept them from falling into the frigid waters but it didn't stop life from moving forward.

He was so charming, so incredibly successful. She won his heart. They had it all. But they didn't get to live it out. Maybe it wouldn't have lasted. Maybe their life together, lived in the glare of the headlights, would have unraveled eventually.

But here by the sea they are frozen in a happy domestic moment with their child and their shaggy dog and their wellies.

Garden tour

Yes, the virtual garden tour. All photos taken today. Tomorrow it will look different--things come, things go. I lost some things over the very harsh winter but thankfully most of the hydrangeas came through and the old cherry blossom tree is still hanging in there.

Front door, crepe myrtle trees, spirea

 
Back door, climbing hydrangeas, a peek at my Tibetan prayer flags :)

Back utility enclosure--the Japanese climbing hydrangea is going crazy there

Back yard under the cherry tree--there are chickadees nesting in the bird house

Volunteer ferns (came up when I pulled up the overgrown ivy) under the cherry tree

Front step--hosta in a pot

Front--under my kitchen window

 Back patio

Patio view from inside the living room

The sun

Oakleaf hydrangeas on the brick wall from the road

Pillow with no name

There was a big, big Amazon box on my doorstep a couple of days ago. I pretty much knew what it was before I opened it. My body pillow had arrived.

I’ve spent years sleeping single in a double bed. In most respects it’s not a problem. Actually it has a lot of advantages—no one snoring or kicking off the blankets or encroaching on my side of the bed. I can sleep in the middle of the bed. I can get up and get back into the bed a thousand times without anyone shouting, “Donna! For the love of God, can you just stay still for more than 5 minutes?” Or worse, “I’ve had it with you and your coughing—go sleep in the basement.” (I had pneumonia when he said that. I slept in the basement for weeks.)

The body pillow is filled with genuine goose down and has a hypoallergenic cover. It’s nearly as tall as I am and I can manipulate it to suit my moods. I can throw my leg over it when my hip hurts. (I hear Taj Mahal singing, “Throw your big leg on me mama ‘cause I might not feel this good again.")

Last night I had a crazy dream about trying to find a place to pour water into my computer. I often confuse the coffeemaker and the computer, can’t remember which one needs water to function. So when I woke up from the dream, feeling a little too warm, I kicked the body pillow on the floor. Can’t do that with a man. Don’t even try.

Since it shares my bed nightly, I’m thinking my sleeping companion needs a name. It needs to be a male name—that’s just the team I’m on. I know the pillow is made of goose down and the source of the goose down could be my inspiration for a name. I’m thinking pâté de foie gras, the pillow must be of French origin so I’ll call it Alain. Nope—checked the tag. It’s goose down from China. "Damn, why China," she whined. I could call it Mao Tse-tung but I’m not in the mood to snuggle with Chairman Mao. Or I could risk punishment, tear the tag from the pillow, and give it any name I want. I’m working on it. I think it’s worth the risk.

The humble abode

Finally . . . I'm keeping a long-term promise to post photos of the inside of my house. (Not including the lower level--respectable in its own right--and the exterior. Garden photos to come.) It's always changing, chalk paint furniture coming and going, things moving around. This is how it looks today.

Living Room (I know you'll love seeing my laundry drying outside)

Dining Room

Kitchen (Miss Eva eating in the corner)

First Floor Powder Room (note that Frida Kahlo cannot be on the same wall as the Guadalupe--they don't get along well)

Random Hall Photos

Guest Room

Guest Bath

Master Bedroom (my tranquil place, the park outside the windows. . . )

 Master Bathroom (with my bracelets)

My Office