It’s Thursday morning

It’s Thursday morning. The dial is now permanently reset from perma-moaning about the endless winter to lightheaded “Hallelujahs!” for all things green and blooming. It’s still Thursday morning and I have a small pain in my chest for our soybean farmers and another twinge in my heart for the knee-jerk unraveling of treaties that will ignite in what we don’t dare to imagine. It’s still Thursday morning. It’s time to plant the cold crops, finish the church bulletin, and smile at John McCain’s integrity for uninviting  Trump to attend his future funeral. It’s Thursday morning and I could mow but I did that yesterday. Maybe I’ll write yet another note of fan mail to Alison Larkin extolling her so well done, performed, written, balanced, informative one-person show. Then again, maybe I’ll finish writing the church bulletin for this Sunday. It’s still Thursday. The sun is still bright. My dogs seem happy. They always seem happy which is why I think we have dogs. They don’t care if it’s still Thursday or that our dear world seems like a bag of rice cakes run over by a Mack truck. It’s Thursday morning. I wasn’t born on a Thursday so I can’t claim to be “a child of woe.” No, that’s Wednesday’s child. “Thursday’s child has far to go.” At least for today I suppose that we are all a Thursday’s child.