lighthouse, with papillon.

went to Stomping Ground for breakfast, and I couldn’t put my camera away for the rest of the day.

the light made everything look so beautiful on my screen. and little esposito is so hard to capture….

I even took some halfway decent selfies….(note: my skin DID NOT LOOK THIS GOOD IRL)

this is how I imagine New England, as rendered through LL Bean catalogs.

essence of sunday laziness:

soundtrack for a foggy day:

and a poem:

picnic, lightning – Billy Collins

“My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three.” – Lolita

It is possible to be struck by a meteor

or a single-engine plane

while reading in a chair at home.

Safes drop from rooftops

and flatten the odd pedestrian

mostly within the panels of the comics,

but still, we know it is possible,

as well as the flash of summer lightning,

the thermos toppling over,

spilling out on the grass.

And we know the message

can be delivered from within.

The heart, no valentine,

decides to quit after lunch,

the power shut off like a switch,

or a tiny dark ship is unmoored

into the flow of the body’s rivers,

the brain a monastery,

defenseless on the shore.

This is what I think about

when I shovel compost

into a wheelbarrow,

and when I fill the long flower boxes,

then press into rows

the limp roots of red impatiens–

the instant hand of Death

always ready to burst forth

from the sleeve of his voluminous cloak.

Then the soil is full of marvels,

bits of leaf like flakes off a fresco,

red-brown pine needles, a beetle quick

to burrow back under the loam.

Then the wheelbarrow is a wilder blue,

the clouds a brighter white,

and all I hear is the rasp of the steel edge

against a round stone,

the small plants singing

with lifted faces, and the click

of the sundial

as one hour sweeps into the next.