I have been really good about biking lately, every day since my race on Sunday I’ve biked 5 to 10 kms including today.
Don’t know if I have mentioned it before, but I have a cousin that lives in the same town as me. He has a garden that he rents by the year from a local farmer who basically divided up a few acres of land and let’s people do what they want. So, Bruno has one of these small plots with a little garden to grow vegetables and keep a grill and tables for Bbq.
Anyway, long story short I decided today would be a good day to stop by and see him at the garden. It’s a holiday in france, nobody has any idea why but it’s a four day weekend that basically everybody gets. So…Anyway, I love my cousin…i really do, but the amount of alcohol that I consume when I am with him is out of control so I don’t go by often. I know I had several glasses of pastis and several glasses of rosé but I lost track of the total. Good thing I ran before stopping by!!
Just so everyone knows what an alcoholic I am, here is a picture from last sunday! Post race rosé.
AND in addition to being tipsy at this point I have to add the fact that my cat is in heat for the first time and driving me nuts with constant meowing. I know I need to get her spayed, I just don’t have the money right now…so in the meantime OMG!
Anyway, today’s poem…
Snake by John Burnside
As cats bring their smiling
mouse-kills and hypnotised birds,
slinking home under the light
of a summer’s morning
to offer the gift of a corpse,
you carry home the snake you thought
was sunning itself on a rock
at the river’s edge:
it shimmies and sways in your hands
like a muscle of light,
and you gather it up like a braid
for my admiration.
I can’t shake the old wife’s tale
that snakes never die,
they hang in a seamless dream
of frogskin and water,
preserving a ribbon of heat
in a bone or a vein,
a cold-blooded creature’s
promise of resurrection,
and I’m amazed to see you shuffle off
the woman I’ve know for years,
tracing the lithe, hard body, the hinge of the jaw,
the tension where sex might be, that I always assume
is neuter, when I walk our muffled house
at nightfall, throwing switches, locking doors.