Okay, okay it’s not the end of the world if I don’t run and I fully realise that, it just feels like the end of the world. So for just the third time of the month I did just that, I ran…and, well it wasn’t absolutely horrible! It took a couple of days of psychological planning to get my sorry posterior shoed up and out the door, but the grumpy old man was no match for a beautiful sunny day.
I did a little extra biking before and totalled about 10k plus a 20k run. Kept the run under 2 hours so that’s not bad even if the last 5k were painful.
A close up of HRH. I really need to record her talking, she is quite vocal!
Today’s poem is a beautiful if bittersweet homage to mothers. This is one that I read to myself every year around mothers day.
By Ted Kooser
Mid April already, and the wild plums
bloom at the roadside, a lacy white
against the exuberant, jubilant green
of new grass an the dusty, fading black
of burned-out ditches. No leaves, not yet,
only the delicate, star-petaled
blossoms, sweet with their timeless perfume.
You have been gone a month today
and have missed three rains and one nightlong
watch for tornadoes. I sat in the cellar
from six to eight while fat spring clouds
went somersaulting, rumbling east. Then it poured,
a storm that walked on legs of lightning,
dragging its shaggy belly over the fields.
The meadowlarks are back, and the finches
are turning from green to gold. Those same
two geese have come to the pond again this year,
honking in over the trees and splashing down.
They never nest, but stay a week or two
then leave. The peonies are up, the red sprouts
burning in circles like birthday candles,
for this is the month of my birth, as you know,
the best month to be born in, thanks to you,
everything ready to burst with living.
There will be no more new flannel nightshirts
sewn on your old black Singer, no birthday card
addressed in a shaky but businesslike hand.
You asked me if I would be sad when it happened
and I am sad. But the iris I moved from your house
now hold in the dusty dry fists of their roots
green knives and forks as if waiting for dinner,
as if spring were a feast. I thank you for that.
Were it not for the way you taught me to look
at the world, to see the life at play in everything,
I would have to be lonely forever.