A day. Got some good work done yesterday-- two small poems, as well as running a couple of loads of laundry and folding clothes, and throwing out the mail ....
Always that urge-- to account for one's day, one's time, what life has been spent to accomplish. Who's checking whether we waste it or spend it usefully, our time? Who keeps track? But the self does: it hangs in there, pointing a shaming finger if we have dared do nothing an hour, much less "wasted" a day ...
So we give shape to the loose largesse of hours-- give shape with calendars and clocks, fill in with done deeds. Some of yesterday's done deeds included-- taking photos of spring bloom. A clutch of small windflowers have appeared near the mini daffodils by my door. They're almost the same shade as the rosemary blossoms overhanging them-- they could get lost to sight, but for their golden hearts, and for the contrast of the yellow flowers nearby.
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