Pics and Poem on a Monday

What can I say--I saw my best girls and we had a famous time, captured here in some photos:

 Taking in the St Patty's festivities in Oak Park

 Bagpipers.

 Lots of walking

 After dancing downtown for 8 hours we waltzed home only to keep going with our fancy moves,

And since I'm always the first to fall asleep and sleep so hard that nothing wakes me, this is the kind of stuff they like to pull. 

In recognition of our famous times, here's a beauty of a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye:

Famous

The river is famous to the fish.

The loud voice is famous to silence,   

which knew it would inherit the earth   

before anybody said so.   

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds   

watching him from the birdhouse.   

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.   

The idea you carry close to your bosom   

is famous to your bosom.   

The boot is famous to the earth,   

more famous than the dress shoe,   

which is famous only to floors.

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it   

and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.   

I want to be famous to shuffling men   

who smile while crossing streets,   

sticky children in grocery lines,   

famous as the one who smiled back.

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,   

or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,   

but because it never forgot what it could do.