Here is a remnant from the past. November 3rd, 2009. It had to marinate in the notebook for a bit before making its debut.
#514, c.1862
Her smile was shaped like other smiles —
The Dimples ran along —
And still it hurt you, as some Bird
Did hoist herself, to sing,
Then recollect a Ball, she got —
And hold upon the Twig,
Convulsive, while the Music broke —
Like Beads — among the Bog —
The satsumas are coming ripe. The meyer lemons in my side yard too. The fig tree is nearly lying on its side, so tired of trying to stand up on its own. I’ll have to post that up before too long or I’ll have a fig vine instead of a tree. My yard is so small that it’s hardly worth the name, yet I feel overwhelmed by the amount of work it takes to keep it going.
I pay tiny men to mow the lawn. When Geoff saw the patch of grass that I was referring to as the “lawn”—that I pay someone else to mow because I won’t— he tried hard not to laugh. I had to explain: I don’t cut my own hair, and I don’t mow my own lawn.
How can a smile hurt? When it stops. When the one smiling becomes distracted by some thought other than the one being smiled upon. Is it really that simple? Yes.
Emily Every Day 