twenty more boxes to go

In a fortnight, or a paksha (Sanskrit for half a lunar month Wikipedia tells me), the movers arrive.  I have packed twenty-four boxes so far; fourteen of them are full of books. Sorting, shredding, bubblewrapping and taping it all up, I feel like a turtle whose home is far bigger than its body might need….


This poem arrived in my email today, via Ivan M. Granger’s wonderful Poetry Chaikhana site: A nightingale’s songBy Ryokan (1758 – 1831)English version by John Stevens A nightingale’s song Brings me out of a dream: The morning glows. <a href=”” title=”Nightingale’s Song”> <iframe width=”640″ height=”510″ src=”; frameborder=”0″ allowfullscreen> “Ode to the Nightingale” by john Keats

the window gift

One thing I will miss very much when I move is my kitchen window.  Shaped like a rectangle, having a latch that lets me open it out like a porthole, it’s a source of pleasure. At night, I let down and shut the venetian blinds.  In the morning, no matter what season, I feel a…