Saturday in CinCity. The Pay the Piper Edition.

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Well, it's January and it must be done. Yoga pants must be dug out of the bottom of a pile of clothes in the bedroom, a short sleeved T shirt must be wriggled into, and I must sweat amongst strangers. Hubby and I have never quite recovered from our last visit to New Orleans and let me simply say two words. Creole. Rabbit. We believe we were placed on earth to eat and drink every two hours while wandering around listening to fabulous music.

Alas, that is not meant to be and January is here and my jeans are not as comfy as my work scrubs, so sweat it shall be today. Turn it up and burn it up, my friends!


  Flowers

by Linda Pastan



The deep strangeness

of flowers in winter—



the orange of clivia,

or this creamy white rose



in its stoneware

vase, while outside



another white

like petals drifting down.



Is it real?

a visitor asks,



meaning the odd magenta

orchid on our sill



unnatural

as makeup on a child.



It's freezing all around us—

salt cold on the lips,



the flinty blacks and grays

of January in any northern city,



and flowers

everywhere:



in the supermarket

by cans of juice,



filling the heated stalls

near the river—



secular lilies engorged

with scent,



notched tulips, crimson

and pink, ablaze



in the icy

corridors of winter.

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Hey, thanks for your thoughts and your time:>)

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