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Saturday December 11, 2021 subscribe |
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Was
supposed to DJ an
outdoor flea market today but the
forecast was dire so it got canceled last
night. Then of course it turned out to be kind of
nice so Sarah and I took advantage of the brief
sunbreak to admire moss, first in
trees, then the engraved
granite epitaph of Alki Point's first pioneer
daughter. Further up the hill, past Local
32 plumbers' corner (their union solidarity
unbroken even in death) and the newly renovated
approach to Bruce Lee's grave, Sarah spied
Denise Levertov's name and ye olde pocket oracle
confirmed it was indeed the poet. Cold and mostly
clear, we sought the tropical
touch of the Conservatory, a psychedelic
love-in of exotic plants writhing
and twining
ensconced in a
palace of sweating glass, transplants all.
(That's OK, no one's from Seattle anymore.) The
mercury read 74℉,
30 degrees warmer than outdoors. Masks
attenuated the olfactory experience but we could
still snatch chocolates from a
passing train, sneak them to our lips. I'm
cultivating contentment, luxuriating in the simplest
things: the
patient cactus, one single breath,
a
stolen kiss. |
