That's a rose that hung over a falling-down wall on my street the other day. I took it with the camera on my phone, and it certainly doesn't do the thing justice, but it was riotously perfect. Despite the profuse rose bloom, it's getting cold here in Los Angeles, some kind of blustery wind is blowing the palm fronds about, we've heard that there's snow in the mountains and tonight is supposed to go down into the 30s. For all those who scorn the "lack of seasons" we have here in Los Angeles, I throw that at you, extra hard. I mean, I'm going to have put on socks with my clogs today!
I've done my daily Anthem Blue Cross chores, talked to the lovely Natasha at the California Insurance Commission, folded some laundry, procured a plumber for the broken toilet, caught up with my friend D who has been itinerant of late (we discussed why his dear friends shouldn't move to Ireland, especially because of the weather), neglected to go for a walk, eaten a bowl of cereal with frozen Trader Joe's blueberries, made a few telephone calls for my job and am now off into the big, wide world.
What are you up to?
The Irish might not have good weather, but they sure have a monopoly on poets, and here's one of my favorites:
Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
W.B. Yeats, 1865
