Monday, August 17, 2009
Not My Talent
If I were a poet I'd write something today about DC in late August, hot and humid and quiet. I would use the word "simmering" - maybe even "sultry" to make a word picture of this city right now.
I would put some great words together to describe the empty streets, the dry rustling sound of the grass underfoot. I would talk about the leaf canopy, dry and droopy but still hanging in there. I would include at least a line in my poem describing the smell of August, like paper slightly burnt.
I would talk about the declining light and the sense of fall, not quite palpable in the heat but there, nevertheless, just out of reach. I would talk about August as DC's annual meditation, make clever references to the Capitol as a head (that's what Capitol means, you know). Because Congress is in recess, and even though people are still hard at work, it is a little bit more quiet in the Capitol than usual, so indeed the head of our government is meditating - kind of.
Too bad I'm not a poet, isn't it? If I were John at Robert Frost's Banjo, or Willow at Willow Manor, or Poetikat, Meri, Sandra, Steven or any of a number of other poet-bloggers, this post would be so good! Oh well, such is life. At least the pics are evocative of peaceful meditation, aren't they?
In a treatment room where I receive massage.