Saturday, March 27, 2004

Beautiful day today, temperature is perfect--24 degrees Centigrade, about 75 Fahrenheit, sun shining, birds singing. Outside just a half a moment ago, I heard a mockingbird. Annie-Frank is started a melody playing on the music box from The Nutcracker, the sad whimsical melody, I can't remember which piece. A little ballerina in pink twirls in a pirouette.

We've got to clean up this front room. Her godmother will visit us this afternoon, I'm told. I hope. She is a pleasant, smart, lovely lady. We will call her, in this journal, Elaine de Trawyes.

I will wash the truck today. I will wash it and wax it.

Now, I leave you with a poem Garrison Keillor posted on the almanac this morning:
"Song," by John Ciardi, from The War Poets (John Day).

Song

The bells of Sunday rang us down
And flowers were blowing across the town
Through faucets of the sun turned on.

For Mary's giggle and Martha's glance
The bankrolls flashed from pants to pants,
The Captain did a Highland dance.

Oh, there were troops in every door,
And liquor spilled on every floor,
And when the sun became a bore

We turned it off and hung a star,
For we were beautiful and far
And all the papers spoke of war.

And all night long from window sills
The Angels beckoned and the bills
Of visors turned and made their kills.

We burned like kisses on the night,
And talented and drunk and bright
We shed ourselves in colored light.

Because the train was at the gate,
And clocks were closing down the date,
And all seas were running late.


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