Hi.
Coffee: Maxwell House Drip, Office Coffee
I drove across town today for a meeting. You could see the places where we’d had hail. Yesterday, a big storm blew through intermittently, pummeling roofs and cars. When it left, it had sucked all the summer heat up and left brisk wind.
Later, I cooked black beans and rice for dinner. I spent an hour chopping vegetables. My hands still smell like lime. I watched the blue sky from the kitchen window, shivered when the wind would blow. That big empty space storms leave in the summer.
Now, a little past my bedtime, I try to rest.
Currently Reading: Kitchen Confidential, Anthony Bourdain
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She awaits the rain like a writer embraces metaphors,
A drizzle isn’t for the child who dances in the storm.
Of rain that washes away the petrichor it brings,
A downpour of a hail of bullets, and she calls it spring.
Sanhita Baruah, The Farewell and other poems
Livesay Writing 