The weekend is like stepping into a glass ball
I decide I will be in the glass ball
The snow globe
And the work days will not touch me
A melange of open ended questions
The surface tension of water
waiting to be broken
I step through Friday
It melts on me like gold
Proenneke alone in the wilderness
Chipping impossibly perfect notches in a log
With a small axe and carving tools
Rolling the logs into their notches
To make a cabin
Having a “tin bending day”
The weekend is my Tin Bending Day
The Wissahickon River dressed in snow
the lady horse standing unphased
with a black and pink plaid poncho
Tall and narrow colonial houses
Like milk cartons made from stone
