Poetry

In the past 24 hours, a plague seems to have struck our house. This is the first time that all 6 of us have been sick at the same time.

Going without food for two days has had the effect of presenting many 19th century poetic moments. If I were a poet, here are the fragments from our day that would find their way into to a poem:

• The clear, delicate way that June says "spi-tup."
• Clara's mastery of her sick look - languid, pale, pouty lips and a low head tilt.
• Will's small, muscular body reading his book between "spi-tups".
• Boisterous John carefully handing me a teeny, tiny paper clip as a gift.
• The red, red tomatoes growing on our vines.
• The relief of sinking into bed for a brief moment with John.
• The peaceful sound of the fan.
• The unusual, sick-house quiet: one reading, one sleeping on a bean-bag on the patio, one looking at a book, and one occupied with an abacus.

It was a day to get through - but was not without beauty.