sunday morning

Finally... Sunday is here. My favorite day of the week. No expectations, no to-dos. Just 24 hours wrapped up in a pretty package and given to me to do with what I please.

Frankie loves Sundays, too.

Yesterday was busy, but I managed to get a slight tan (gotta love being able to sit outside in a swimming suit in April!) while filling up over a hundred water balloons. I also finished my essay about the Art in Public Places Program in Oklahoma, but I found out that earlier this week the bill to discontinue this program had been passed. I don't understand how some people cannot appreciate or see value in the arts. I guess private funding might be better in the long run anyhow because my disapproval for the government and how it operates is growing more and more with each passing day. That's a whole other post in itself.... Anyway...

I was just browsing poets.org (thanks Diana for recommending... she posted a pretty poem on her blog yesterday, too!) and I came across a lovely page full of ways to celebrate National Poetry Month... my favorite being Poem In Your Pocket Day, which is April 14th.

Simply print or write your favorite poem and carry it in your pocket so that you can share it with family, friends, and co-workers. I love this simple little idea and I'm searching for the perfect poem to put in my pocket :)

But for now, here's a perfect poem for today.....

A Muse
by Reginald Shepherd
He winds through the party like wind, one of the just who live alone in black and white, bewildered by the eden of his body. (You, you talk like winter rain.) He's the meaning of almost-morning walking home at five A.M., the difference a night makes turning over into day, simple birds staking claims on no sleep. Whatever they call those particular birds. He's the age of sensibility at seventeen, he isn't worth the time of afternoon it takes to write this down. He's the friend that lightning makes, raking the naked tree, thunder that waits for weeks to arrive; he's the certainty of torrents in September, harvest time and powerlines down for miles. He doesn't even know his name. In his body he's one with air, white as a sky rinsed with rain. It's cold there, it's hard to breathe, and drowning is somewhere to be after a month of drought.