Good morning from Rockford. It’s snowing. It’s March and the earth is warming up so the “downy flake” won’t stick around long. But it’ll be here long enough to brighten up the brown.
Spring snow always brings a pale blue light with it and I must warn you: I’m dangerously close to writing a nature poem. But I won’t do that to you because it would be too literal.
Morning, Noon & Night Snow is falling yeast is rising laundry's tumbling Neighbor's shoveling dough is balling oven's heating Ice is forming pizza’s baking clothes are folding Wind is shifting Kids are eating Dog is waiting Clouds are moving Heads are resting Stars are glowing Night is covering Morning's hovering Peace. -me 03-07-2022
Instead, I’ll just tell you I’m serving homemade mushroom pizzas for dinner. We love mushrooms over here.
But yesterday I was reading A Promised Land by Barack Obama and he referred to a time he was treated like a mushroom. He wrote that he was “fed shit and kept in the dark.”
Boy, I hate when somebody I admire makes disparaging remarks about something I love. I have enormous respect for Barack Obama and feel a strong sense of loyalty to him but am I supposed to dislike mushrooms now? Because that’s asking too much. I’m dangerously close to writing a poem about feeling conflicted. But I won’t do that because it would be too sad.
However, I will tell you I find it oddly comforting and reassuring that even the former president has been “fed shit and kept in the dark.” I thought that only happened to me. I’m dangerously close to writing a poem about how Barack and I are soulmates.
Instead of that, since I have poetry on my mind, I think I’ll leave you with a poem about women’s rights by Sylvia Plath. You’ll never guess the title.
Mushrooms Overnight, very Whitely, discreetly Very quietly Our toes, our noses Take hold on the loam Acquire the air Nobody sees us Stops us, betrays us The small grains make room Soft fists insist on Heaving the needles The leafy bedding Even the paving Our hammers, our rams Earless and eyeless Perfectly voiceless Widen the crannies Shoulder through holes. We Diet on water On crumbs of shadow Bland-mannered, asking Little or nothing So many of us! So many of us! We are shelves, we are Tables, we are meek We are edible Nudgers and shovers In spite of ourselves Our kind multiplies We shall by morning Inherit the earth Our foot's in the door -Sylvia Plath
Thanks for reading my blog and, more importantly, the poem by Sylvia Plath. Now if you’ll excuse me, I better get back to the kitchen. Those mushrooms aren’t going to cook themselves. -Connie