(no subject)
Brunch yesterday was... fairly disastrous. Someone filled our baking powder jar with baking soda. Woe to you who think they are the same! If you bake something with soda instead of powder, it will come out dark brown and salty/bitter like a really nasty pretzel. Does anyone know why that happens, chemically speaking? Anyway, we had to throw a lot of stuff out, which was sad, but it wasn't our fault, so we just had to laugh. At least people loved our chocolate chip/raisin brioches. They should; we put enough butter and eggs in them. Oh, also, Leah brought Meg to brunch! She's going to be here through next week, when the other recent grads come to visit. Exciting.
It is damn cold today. I woke up this morning and it was 0 degrees outside. But then I ate a warm vegan ginger/carrot/orange muffin and that almost made it all better.
I wrote a sestina this weekend! I am so damn proud of myself. I thought it would be way too complicated, but once I thought of the title, all else flowed along. The lady in question approves, so I figure it's OK to post here.
Katrina's Sestina
She loved to learn the ways of energy and matter.
I think it was her way of saying thanks
to a universe unfolding like a poem.
She talked about the stars like old friends,
described their swift course with her hands,
recognized their light reflected in the snow.
On my nineteenth birthday she made ice cream from snow,
sweet vanilla alchemy of matter.
She said she always used her bare hands
to scoop up the snow. I could only say thanks.
It was then I wanted her first for my friend.
I watched her walk away; she was a poem.
Years later at our dinner table, she read poems
against the silence of the outside snow.
We were gathered, seven friends,
eating together to show that we mattered
to each other, to pause and give thanks
for our food while holding hands.
I gave her what I could: bread shaped by my hands,
warm for the table, a few of my poems.
And though she always offered me her thanks,
sometimes I asked of the swirling snow,
To her, do I really matter?
I know it takes more than hope to make friends.
When she moved to China, she left things for her friends.
For me, a small clay bowl with the imprint of her hands.
I like having something made of solid matter
to remember her by. When I try to hold poems,
they slip away on the wind like snow.
She left her gift in secret; I could not say thanks.
Thanks,
friend.
Snow,
hands,
poems
matter.
Will I see her again? It doesn't matter. Thanks
for reading this poem, my friend,
written with my hands in the melting snow.
It is damn cold today. I woke up this morning and it was 0 degrees outside. But then I ate a warm vegan ginger/carrot/orange muffin and that almost made it all better.
I wrote a sestina this weekend! I am so damn proud of myself. I thought it would be way too complicated, but once I thought of the title, all else flowed along. The lady in question approves, so I figure it's OK to post here.
Katrina's Sestina
She loved to learn the ways of energy and matter.
I think it was her way of saying thanks
to a universe unfolding like a poem.
She talked about the stars like old friends,
described their swift course with her hands,
recognized their light reflected in the snow.
On my nineteenth birthday she made ice cream from snow,
sweet vanilla alchemy of matter.
She said she always used her bare hands
to scoop up the snow. I could only say thanks.
It was then I wanted her first for my friend.
I watched her walk away; she was a poem.
Years later at our dinner table, she read poems
against the silence of the outside snow.
We were gathered, seven friends,
eating together to show that we mattered
to each other, to pause and give thanks
for our food while holding hands.
I gave her what I could: bread shaped by my hands,
warm for the table, a few of my poems.
And though she always offered me her thanks,
sometimes I asked of the swirling snow,
To her, do I really matter?
I know it takes more than hope to make friends.
When she moved to China, she left things for her friends.
For me, a small clay bowl with the imprint of her hands.
I like having something made of solid matter
to remember her by. When I try to hold poems,
they slip away on the wind like snow.
She left her gift in secret; I could not say thanks.
Thanks,
friend.
Snow,
hands,
poems
matter.
Will I see her again? It doesn't matter. Thanks
for reading this poem, my friend,
written with my hands in the melting snow.