With the icy city rain slanting into the window, this seems an appropriate poem for the day. However, tis cosy inside with opera playing on the stereo, a penny found, and an experimental frittata scenting the flat with garlic, mushrooms and basil. Happy Friday!
You Are Happy
by Margaret Atwood
The water turns
a long way down over the raw stone,
ice crusts around it
We walk separately
along the hill to the open
beach, unused
picnic tables, wind
shoving the brown waves, erosion, gravel
rasping on gravel.
In the ditch a deer
carcass, no head. Bird
running across the glaring
road against the low pink sun.
When you are this
cold you can think about
nothing but the cold, the images
hitting into your eyes
Ooh, the fritatta looks awesome. How'd that turn out?
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