Pumpkin is asleep in our window this afternoon. He has had an ear infection and he patiently lets me clean his grotty ear and put drops in it. Afterwards he crawls on my lap for comfort. How trusting he is, even after I’ve assaulted him with ear swabs and medicine bottles.
The warm weather of last week is gone and it’s been replaced by cold, crisp days. I understand that there is snow in the forecast for Wednesday.
I’ve been thinking of this beautiful poem today:
A man who cultivates his garden, as Voltaire wished.
He who is grateful for the existence of music.
He who takes pleasure in tracing an etymology.
Two workmen playing, in a cafe in the South, a silent game of chess.
The potter, contemplating a color and a form.
The typographer who sets this page well, though it may not please him.
A woman and a man, who read the last tercets of a certain canto.
He who strokes a sleeping animal.
He who justifies, or wishes to, a wrong done him.
He who is grateful for the existence of Stevenson.
He who prefers others to be right.
These people, unaware, are saving the world.