The other day I saw in the garden the first bright green crocus pushing the winter aside, unabashed in its gladness. Not being a post-podern thing, the crocus has no use for irony, no love of grumbling.
Said the poet from Nepal, ‘everybody I meet in America has a car and a job
and a big television, and they all say they are broke'.
By the lake, one dead frog, (mid leap ?) one early bumble bee, a noisy clan of Canada geese, a constellation of starlings.
At the Socrates gathering this month, the subject was Power. Around the circle: a Wiccan, a Christian, a Buddhist, a couple of Neitzscheans, a brilliant comic stoic, an astrophysicist, an English teacher, a metaphysician, and a plumber.
He had the question hushed us all, until we answered, answered, answered.