In Which the Poet does Anything but Facebook

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My hermitage continues.  

 It too is addictive.

 Though my pace is considerably slowed, and my words are reserved for the page, the poets come visit, the moon goes large, the deer continue to graze.  

 If we're talking

 all the time

 and opining 
and opining 
and opining

 all the time

 surely something dies.  

 My son has set about convincing me that Instagram is more my pace, particularly for selling art.   I have assured him it's on my list of things to investigate.  Along with shadow, shape, and form, and other things that lie still, and germinate.  

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