Maira wears the ruffled part of December. Something peculiar this season travels
But Maira plays canasta on a floral sofa and marvels at the merry mints of days in their little tin canisters. She happens to be. She happens to be utterly alive. There is truth in every cemetery and it hangs in the trees with the hawks—big as a Labrador puppy—with eyes calmly hungry. There is truth in the burning-hot magenta, in Russian men in big, black coats and glorious women and jam—most of all jam.
2 comments:
Isn't she the best? Mmm. I wish I could paint a-smk in her green and fushcianess like Maira would.
Ah, Chicky. Just by sharing your child's book website, you already have. It made my afternoon a child's afternoon: the kind I used to have when I was neither "baffled" (thanks JB) or filtered from the skies and weathers (thanks again, Chicky!) and not eyeball-deep in books that fall out of my ears as soon as I read them.
After I read this, I was at the bagel shop and a mother called out to her daughter: Summer, come back. Summer, don't go anywhere" and due to this website, I'm sure, I heard it all poeted-out and philosophical.
A good chicky you are!
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