Oct. 12, 2013
Autumn 2013 finds him reworking a poem.
Only the day before, a red wasp took exception to his being where the wasp thought he should not have been, and though he was stung once only, it was enough to leave aswollen hand and a vivid memory. The day before that, a friend from across the way got targeted by several yellow jackets. When warm days grow rare, summer’s stinging insects know they are soon to be doomed, and vent their fury on those of us advanced enough to wear addition clothing. Not very scientific, to be sure, but it was the best he could do.
Autumn finds him humming an old tune that had been appearing and disappearing since grade school days.
Autumn finds him as it had for every year of the allotted three score and ten, still breathing.
Poetic tinkering, wasp sting, and tune that never entirely goes away—these matter a great deal.
The breathing part matters more.
P. O. Box 8
Herod, IL 62947