Saturday, August 01, 2015


A pansy's face from a long-ago summer.
Today in Idaho it reached 101 degrees; if I had been a blossom, I would have wilted.

August 1, 1956

It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what is said on one rejection slip: After a heavy rainfall, poems titled "Rain" pour in from across the nation.

Silvia Plath

The Assassin's Cloak; an anthology of the world's greatest diarists; edited by Irene and Alan Taylor. 
Canongate Books, Great Britain, 2000, page 380. 

Another entry from the diary anthology. I wish I had a diary, but never enough to keep one for very long. Sleep tight!

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