Flipping drops aloft in leaféd trees
as slippéd rifts the wind hove clouds apart
Oh day, asigh among the seedling rustles
flings lofty fire, hammers lifting.
Anvils awake. Light ceases, yet
tears life in two -- Toppling.
mingles clinging things,
dust and vapor collude, and wring
the towels of the heavens sing,
when lofty miles swoop and reel and patter fields
On days like that, when I have worked hard, and the humidity has sapped all the energy of life -- when I have spent hours on the phone interviewing, and even longer hours writing...
Happiness is a cup of fresh orange juice.