We are sitting here trying to decide what to say ...

We've been gone a lot. Steve says we had a whirling dervish of a Thanksgiving. Last weekend we spent in Logan with my sister and Steve's brothers, celebrating with ham and a delicious blackberry cobbler. We came back on Sunday so that Steve could go to work on Monday. I was off school all week, which should have meant lots of homework, but instead meant lots of goofing off. On Thursday (Thanksgiving) we drove out to my parents' house to eat dinner with them. It was very quiet, but nice. Friday my sister came with her four children, and suddenly it became less quiet (but no less nice). We stayed until Saturday evening.

Today we spent a couple hours putting up the Christmas tree and lights. I love having a Christmas tree in my house. There's something so . . . festive and jolly about it. Now if only my kitchen were clean so I could feel relaxed.

I am reading the Book Thief. Has anyone read it? It seems like the kind of book where I will need to discuss it when I'm done.

Anyway, that's probably all. Live long.

A couple of poems

I have been writing farm poetry.

I know, that's a little weird. But I got the ideas in my head and I can't get them out without putting them on paper. As they are turning out kind of fun, I thought I would post two on here.

Here's #1:

Barn, Just Outside the North Door, January, 3 A.M.

If . . .

you open the refrigerator

(shield your eyes, the light is blinding)

and crawl inside, scoop up your limbs

and deposit them

right next to the half-full gallon

of raw milk, rest

with your head pillowed on leftover potato salad,

dip your fingers one by one

into the ranch dressing

(lick them quickly, don’t make a mess)

If you stay there until the roast beef starts to smell and the cheddar is

bemolded . . .

You will still never be as cold as this.

And #2:

Cat Poem

My father is a cat.

Nocturnal –

out at night, bringing home

dead mice and too-large pidgeons.

Sleepy –

sunbeam yellow, moves when the sun moves,

a twitch, a twist.

Musical –

bass voice, yowls on the fence with perfect pitch and perfect rhythm.

Itchy –

head scratching, asks us to dig in a little deeper, a little higher.

Solitary –

Works alone. Likes it.

I sigh in the warmth

of his purr,

his careful

compliments

(so different

from my

mother’s

radiant

tongue,

dripping

a pool

of love

for me

to rest in)

run their

tails

across

my knees,

shiver

me

like

whi-

ske-

rs.

What do you think?