I am fascinated by centipedes. They are all over the place this time of year, here in Florida. (It is also lovebug season, which is a NIGHTMARE, but that is another story...) Today, as Karl, Seviah and myself were taking a walk, Karl picked up a large centipede on a leaf to show Seviah what they look like from the side view. It is so intriguing to me how they can look so cool, calm and collected on the surface and be making such great time and then you look from another angle and there is a helluva lot of work going on to create that smooth, rapid pace. But, despite all of those legs moving, it is not disorderly, in fact it is one of the most smooth and precise movements I have seen in all of nature. The way that those many feet undulate and coordinate to make such a perfectly smooth rhythm is stunning. I desperately want to be like a centipede. I have so many things and people that I love that I juggle and I want them to all get what they need from me in the most proper order so that I can keep a smooth and rapid pace through life. I have a long way to go, but wanting this kind of order is a start, I hope. As I walked and thought about this, a favorite piece of poetry popped into my head, as it so often does. (No more comments from the peanut gallery about all of the useless quotes, poems and other bits and pieces that reside in my head.) I thought of my very favorite poem by Robert Frost. The only one of his (except for the wee Zacchaeus one) that I have memorized. And I memorized this one because it makes me yearn and tear up and occasionally even weep or sob because this is the woman I want to be, this is what the centipede looks like, in human form. Oh, I love this poem and I am glad to have it pop into my head as I face another birthday in a few hours and contemplate where I have been and where I am going. I will spend the next year working to be a centipede or a silken tent! And here is the poem, for anyone who is still even reading this...

The Silken Tent

She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To every thing on earth the compass round,
And only by one's going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightlest bondage made aware.