Saturday Morning


Fog in the mornings, hunger for clarity
coffee and bread with sour plum jam.
Numbness of soul in placid neighborhoods.
Lives ticking on as if.

A typewriter’s torrent, suddenly still…
Whatever you bring in your hands, I need to see it…

A cat drinks from a bowl of marigolds – his moment.
Surely the love of life is never-ending…

~ Adrienne Rich, from “To The Days” in Dark Fields of the Republic: Poems 1991-1995

Photo Gif: LivingStills


  1. My mantra..’cherish this, cherish this, cherish this..’

    Liked by 3 people

  2. “numbness of soul….” so sad. hope for the cat dipping into the marigolds. always hope…

    Liked by 2 people

  3. roseanne333 says:

    Ahhh, David – here I go again. Your posts often lead me down a rabbit hole. I had to go find and read the entire poem.
    I lovelove mimijk’s mantra.
    Happy weekend.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. AR’s poem, The Middle-Aged, has remained in my top 10 favorite poems for more than a decade. Thanks for all your time and effort that you put into your posts.

    Adrienne Rich
    The Middle-Aged

    Their faces, safe as an interior
    Of Holland tiles and Oriental carpet,
    Where the fruit-bowl, always filled, stood in a light
    Of placid afternoon ⎯ their voices’ measure,
    Their figures moving in the Sunday garden
    To lay the tea outdoors or trim the borders,
    Afflicted, haunted us. For to be young
    Was always to live in other peoples’ houses
    Whose peace, if we sought it, had been made by others,
    Was ours at second-hand and not for long.
    The custom of the house, not ours, the sun
    Fading the silver-blue Fortuny curtains,
    The reminiscence of a Christmas party
    Of fourteen years ago ⎯ all memory.
    Signs of possession and of being possessed,
    We tasted, tense with envy. They were so kind,
    Would have given us anything; the bowl of fruit
    Was filled for us, there was a room upstairs
    We must call ours: but twenty years of living
    They could not give. Nor did they ever speak
    Of the coarse stain on that polished balustrade,
    The crack in the study window, or the letters
    Locked in a drawer and the key destroyed.
    All to be understood by us, returning
    Late, in our own time ⎯ how that peace was made,
    Upon what terms, with how much left unsaid.

    Liked by 3 people

  5. Beautiful 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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