Not a Bad Day

All things considered, it turned out to be not a bad day at all.

No one showed up from St. Godric's, but I've told them before that if I am not in time for the poetry workshop, something must have come up and they should use the time as they please. I think there was a general consensus among them to practice poetic vision one way or the other even if I wasn't there. Perhaps they will run through some of the exercises again.

Camilla came early mid-morning and gave me a hand with the clean-up. Her cave was fine, of course. We dug a drainage ditch around the cottage, the garden, and the root cellar in case we ever get rain like that again. I think the soil is absorbent enough to handle most rain, but yesterday was something. I wouldn't be surprised if we got over two inches.

We also had to prop up some of the vegetables.

We both got very dirty, but it was a good dirty. We washed up after dinner and sat on the 'porch' for a while.

Before she left for the evening, she pulled a folded and somewhat crinkled piece of yellow tablet paper out of her jeans pocket.

"Here," she said, "This is why I like Rilke. You can read it later." Then she got up to go.

After I watched her disappear into the trees on far side of the valley, I unfolded the paper, brushed it smooth, and read:

__________

"The Song of the Waif"

I am nobody and always will be.
I'm almost too little to live, right now,
and even later.

O mothers and fathers,
have pity on me.

But it's not worth your bother:
I'll still be mowed down.
No one can use me: it's too early. Wait
until tomorrow - then it's too late.

I've only this little gown,
and it's getting thin and faded ...
but it holds an eternity,
and even before God, maybe.

I've only this lock from her brow
(it stays always the same)
it was father's treasure once.

He doesn't love anything now.