Dear Reader,
Word Raccoon will not shut up about our coffee date with our friend. The friend has moved to Spain and was back visiting family, and WR could not wait to see her! (her mother, who was out for a walk, joined us for a coffee for a bit, too. Very cool. We will be sorry to see our friend leave…we have missed her energy.)
WR loves receiving new book titles and movie suggestions, especially from those who know what she needs most, and she pushes those recommendations to the front of her TBR/TBW list. She’ll be watching a recommended movie first while she waits for her new book to arrive. Which, much to her chagrin, appears to be on a slow boat.
But the parade of fashion today! WR truly admired so much style. She admired it coming – and going – and coming again. Why, she could eavesdrop on that attire all day!
WR treasured the conversation, and was honored to be asked about her current WIP. I fear she became just a touch too animated by the audience, wishing she could talk to everyone about it.
This silly raccoon has been floating over here all day after her energizing morning, although she got so flustered that she’s having to replay the fuzzy details to see if she can recapture them.
I sent her to the gym to calm her down, not that it worked, wee beastie.
She was rummaging in my poetry bin earlier, and this came up wrapped around her tiny nose. She says she doesn’t know if it’s a poem or a song, but that you might, Dear Reader. She claims the artist is not necessarily in charge of the interpretation.
Fair, WR.
And psst…she says if it were a song (well, this is a fragment, so…), it would be in an Adele key. (WR, you don’t honestly believe you can just say “in the key of Adele,” do you? Oh, you do? Well, you may be right.)
Imagine That
Why is it you get credit
for every offering of nature,
every flower, every leaf?
every cross breeze
I encounter?
Why do my ears plunder
what others utter
for an echo of something
you once said, might say,
might have said?
(If this were a song, here’s where it would move up a key.)
Why is my mind filled with unshot footage
of unmade movies where I cast
every part?
Why do I feel most myself when
I even think of you…
Imagine that.
Imagine that.
Drema