L'aura del Campo

Son of Onan.

Son of Onan

What stream from yonder one-eyed font
breaks forth this rainbowed dawn;
what froth squirts across this hairy plain
to seep into dark navel swirls?
What alluvium's deposited
along the rippled abs;
what trace of salt and sweat remain;
what children never fathered?

© Kåre Enga [164.94] 07-05

IMAGES:

Twitch and glide of the swallow; soft landing flight of a pigeon; stench of picking an ailanthus leaf; dull baby bird dipping for water from the gutter; squirrel loping across the roof; the crunch of animal crackers; sparrow building a nest; butterfly on the lilac trees.

MY LIFE:

At Henry's: spoke to Ilke about Ukranian food. Saw Carol and Neva and Malcolm (of course). Almost spilled coffee on my laptop yesterday ... that would've been a tragedy. It sprinkled today and I finished another book.

Wrote a postcard to a friend; it is Sunday. It shows the muddy Kaw during the flood of '93. Looking at it I thought: white frosted chocolate water and the flow ...

I will be putting less of my daily boredom here. When I need to weep or rant, it'll be in the other blog, Hoarfrosts from Hell.

Memorial Day is for those you wish to remember ...

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