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SHEPHERDING
Today I paused to considerhow odd it must be for thoseborn, bred and always livingin a city, say New York, andto sill be a lover of poetry.So many poets, from Keatsto Hirshfield will take youinto nature, bathe you in wordsbeneath a star lit sky, sit youin a meadow, breathing airthat has never known the exhaustof…
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SATURDAY, OF COURSE
On a quiet Sunday morning, my cappuccinoin equal measures gone and cooling, Ipaused to consider the mug on the tableadjacent to mine, alone, uncared about. It stared back at me, from its perchon the coaster pedestal on which ithad been placed so carefully, a bevyof faces holding my eye trying to tell me what? It…
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an old writer and his words 