Friday, April 28, 2017

the soul is made of water

I am looking for online remote work for younger boy. It's in the animation field so I am not familiar with such jobs but I will keep trucking.
Outside it is very sunny. I imagine that a walk would be a good thing.  But first I look for the job. I have looked at some jobs but they need to be evaluated by younger boy as I do not know what he does in his field.

The best use of the day is to write it out.  The laundry has been put up and the next load is in process. While younger boy got up and ate a bit there was  a return to bed. Older boy still sleeps. The honey flow of sunlight into the writing room is comforting.

All the work not done isn't going to worry me at the end of life so I let the thought of the unfinished work go.

The poem by Emily Dickinson about her soul is before me.

I will make a poem about the soul and think about it.


the soul is made of water
(I will make it so)
and hang it up as ice
a pane that will bluely glow

I will shake it free
of frame and constricting wall
to lay it shattered on the floor
and heed not the plaintive call

I will then transform it
 lasso it     when it gallops away
on the grassy meadow of imagination
where the robins play

I will make a soul of water
that can change its shape
or transform to other bodies
in this metaphorical landscape

and when I am tired of the business
I will fold the soul    and hide
the shining stuffs its made of 
and put it by my side

like an umbrella that's not needed
in a shuttered shape that's still
but when the storm appears
it will serve my flighty will

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