August 11th, 2007


Not a Poet

So, I seem to have come down with some sort of stomach flu, or perhaps the neighbors poisoned me in a clever attempt to... well, I can't think of any real motive there, so that's probably not it. Then, I did the foolish thing where I'm mildly sick and go out of the house, and it uses up all my energy. So upon returning home, I flung myself onto the guest room bed (harrock had coopted the bedroom bed for laundry) to nap.

The bed in the guest room is right up against the window, which was open a bit. So the room was still reasonably cool from last night, but this warm breeze was slowly poofing in onto my face.

Were I a poet, I would manage to say something about Summer bending over me, her breath sweet and grassy-and-flowers-smelling and warm, and she ruffles my hair back and asks, concerned, "Are you okay, hon?" That is, I'd manage to say that and have it rhyme too.

As it is, it's an image that sticks with me and is a pleasant bit in an otherwise not very pleasant day.
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