Ghost Buffalo

Hestia shook her head. "I am here because when all else fails, when all the other mighty gods have gone off to war, I am all that's left. Home. Hearth.  I am the last Olympian".  ( rick riordan) One fire, many campfires.  I have been asked by a dear friend to speak on the radio on the subject of the domestic arts. I'm still mulling what sort of useful comments I might have to contribute. I suspect the Arts are all the same in that there are no rules, and one need only follow one's own impulses, but it sure helps to have learned one's scales,  to make good use of what's on hand, to be still, and mind the sentinels,  to reap the many benefits  of wintering and summering,   of family, friends, and  offerings,   And surely it can't ever hurt 

I have been thinking a lot these days about penguins, parachutes, poppies, portable potties, and intellectual honesty.   And I have been pondering the difference between guilt and responsibility, generosity and miserliness.  Not in the other guy, but at  the prow of one's own vessel.   I have reached no conclusions, thank odd.  I only know what I suppose I have always known: that poetry at its best has something to do with raising the frequency --  or perhaps  grounding the anchor.  In recent months I have witnessed within a ten mile radius of our home, a Weeping Serbian Pine in a blistering terrain, a grape of bronze and aquamarine, a secret monument to the tribal archetypes, some bulldozers, the ghost of a pine, Mars, Venus, Jupiter -- and I have glimpsed the dance of the rain in a broken grain of sand.   Well, who among us hasn't ?   I live my life in growing orbits which move out over the things of the world. Perhaps I can never achieve t