Update on July 30: Still enthusiastic

      When I sent my list of 75 favorite books to my sister Laura, who suggested it, she chastised me for leaving out Steinbeck and books from childhood. I was chagrined at having forgotten Steinbeck (Grapes of Wrath, Winter of Our Discontent, The Red Pony) and had thought about The Little Colonel's Hero by Anne Fellows Johnson and, of course, Little Women. Finally, though, I had to decide the list was done and would have to stay as it is: with some serious omissions. Maybe this is a case in which 75 isn't such a big number as it might seem.,
     On the way to Eugene to visit friends, I drove past some horrific clearcuts, which prompted some prayers for the earth to add to the list:
            May the earth forgive our trespasses against it, which are severe and legion.
            May we listen to what the earth is telling us and pay heed.
            May we allow the earth time to lick its wounds and recover.
            May the apple limbs hang low with rosy-cheeked apples.
            May the snow fly thick.
            May the springs flow full.
            May there be a crash in the population of the pine bark beetle.
      One of the most fun things in doing this has been the connection with my friends. If Sharon challenges me to jump rope 75 times, I'll think of her with every jump. Phil suggests I take 75 swims this year, a challenge he knew I would take up with enthusiasm (though I can't swim here now; the smoke curtails all outdoor activity). My friend who loves to run wants me to run 75 yards; my gardening friends suggest I plant flowers; friends I don't see often suggest I visit friends; friends with deep social consciences suggest I volunteer 75 hours or take political action 75 times or do something similar to better the world. It's all on the list.
      I wrote a second poem (73 to go!). It's called "Two Arabian Princesses."
            Two Arabian princesses
            As I heard the tale,
            went shopping in L.A.,
            dripping gold from fingertips
            like water after a bath.
            They bought,
            I thought I heard,
            sixty-five
            hundred-dollar bras.

            But that wasn't it. What
            they bought was
            sixty
            five-hundred-dollar bras.

            A bra that costs $500.

            Is it made with the softest silk
            in the kingdom?
            Is it covered with exquisite lace,
            tatted by a dozen hand-maidens?
            Does it fit like a dream,
            cup the breasts like a lover's hands,
            never ride up
            or pinch the under-arm
            or slip a strap over the shoulder?
            Do the hooks slip into eyes without a wink?
            Is it as delicate as a rose petal
            and as durable as the rising of the sun?
            (Though why would Arabian princesses,
            dripping gold from their fingertips,
            care how long a bra would last?)

             I want to try one on
             just one, just once, just to know
            what the Arabian princesses know.

            But, alas! I am Cinderella in a garret room
            with no fairy godmother at the window.
            Wearing a $500 bra
            Even for five minutes
            is as remote as wearing a glass shoe
            or riding in a pumpkin coach
            or hearing Scheherazade
            tell an Arabian tale
            to the king.