TOPIC for Magnolia Women 7 PM Thursday Night
(Feb. 4)

The Almanac of Last Things

From the almanac of last things
I choose the spider lily
for the grace of its brief
blossom, though I myself
fear brevity, but I choose
The Song of Songs
because the flesh
of those pomegranates
has survived
 all the frost of dogma.

I choose January with its chill
lessons of patience and despair–and
August, too sun-struck for lessons.
I choose a thimbleful of red wine
to make my heart race,
then another to help me
sleep. From the almanac
of last things I choose you,
as I have done before.

And I choose evening
because the light clinging
to the window
is at its most reflective
just as it is ready
to go out.  by Linda Pastan

by Robert Frost

For every parcel I stoop down to seize
I lose some other off my arms and knees,
And the whole pile is slipping, bottles, buns—
Extremes too hard to comprehend at once,
Yet nothing I should care to leave behind.
With all I have to hold with, I will do my best
To keep their building balanced at my breast.
I crouch down to prevent them as they fall;
Then sit down in the middle of them all.
I had to drop the armful in the road.
And try to stack them in a better load.

by Al Zolynas

We find them around
the leavings of telephone
conversations clinging
to addresses, appointments;
around the notes
of committee members,
judges; in the margins
of grocery lists and aborted
poems. They are always
on the edges, sliding
away like vitreous floaters
when we try to see
them clearly. For all their ubiquity,
they are humble and
basic: flowers, stars, stick-men,
uncomplicated by the rules of
perspective and modeling.
They leave the loud shout
of the third dimension to Art.
They are content to whisper.