saturday

There are many poems that I would like to crawl inside of and live in until I am old and gray and full of sleep. Until then, I would gladly live inside of one of these matchboxes, reading "On Leaving Some Friends at an Early Hour" by Keats every evening by candlelight until I am leaning on heaped-up flowers, with wavy hair and glances keen (I could truly memorize every Keats poem and die happily- which is why I am completely dizzy in anticipation of Ms. Campion's Bright Star). And, since I have a ways to go until I am matchbox size, I suppose I will have to squeeze in a trip to the Huntington Gardens to smell the wilting, late summer roses, enjoy an early afternoon tea, and take in a bit of reading 'neath a canopy of leaves.