Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love.

You trip over a word while carryinga tray of vocabulary out to the poolonly to discover that broken glassis a good topic.

I feel like the secretary to the morning whose only/responsibility is to take down its bright, airy dictation/until it's time to go to lunch with the other girls,/all of us ordering the cottage cheese with half a pear.

O Canada I have not forgotten you,as I kneel in my canoe, beholding this visionof a bookcase.You are the paddle, the snowshoe, the cabin in the pines.You are the moose in the clearing and the moosehead on the wall.You are the rapids, the propeller, the kerosene lamp.You are the dust that coats the roadside berries.But not only that,you are the two boys with pails walking along that road.

You are turning melike someone turning a globe in her hand,and yes, I have another side like a China no one,not even me, has ever seen.So describe to me what's there,say what you are looking atand I will close my eyes so I can see it too,the oxcarts and all the lively flags.I love the sound of your voice like a little saxophonetelling me what I could never knowunless I dug a hole all the way downthrough the core of myself.