Ephemera

Reports that as I walked an emptying hall this morning my feet preceded my body too far, like Wile E. Coyote revving his legs in a round then taking off down the curving road, his torso still in place, yet to catch up.

What does it mean when the highlight of the day is brewing tea and drinking it with four spoons of honey? I can see arguments for both sides.

I appreciate the responses to the Emerson below, but, really, that was an essay prompt, and I expect essay answers, so I don't appreciate the responses because not one of them was in essay form.

There is only one more day of work. Tomorrow (Friday) I am on a snowmobile trip - "Morale Booster" - to a section of the ice shelf known as Windless Bight, out there pulling flags before winter hits. Saturday is the final day, Sunday off, Monday packing and cleaning, Tuesday gone, weather permitting. My coworkers have driven me to the edge and this morning I found myself reading about Raskolnikov. I listened to the Talking Heads, returned chemicals no longer needed by grantees, filled paperwork, filed paperwork.

Slowly we grow tired, sleep comes earlier and earlier. So we lie in bed and ponder this, decry all the madness all about, bury ourselves in books, what not. The dreamcatchers seining deep water drift shallow, worn and wide. I'll leave you, Antarctica. Nothing more.


'Your eyes that once were never weary of mine
Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids,
Because our love is waning.'
And then She:
'Although our love is waning, let us stand
By the lone border of the lake once more,
Together in that hour of gentleness
When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.
How far away the stars seem, and how far
Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!'

Pensive they paced along the faded leaves,
While slowly he whose hand held hers replied:
'Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.'

The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves
Fell like faint meteors in the gloom, and once
A rabbit old and lame limped down the path;
Autumn was over him: and now they stood
On the lone border of the lake once more:
Turning, he saw that she had thrust dead leaves
Gathered in silence, dewy as her eyes,
In bosom and hair.
'Ah, do not mourn,' he said,
'That we are tired, for other loves await us;
Hate on and love through unrepining hours.
Before us lies eternity; our souls
Are love, and a continual farewell.'