Grey skies today. Between bright and dim, about two-thirds dim. Down to one holy ghost, say. Which is a relief. Yesterdays steady sunny wind wasnt my speed. Wind in one vector, why? My half-Irish, half-happy, wholehearted love loves skies various and mute enough to let the green (beneath) speak. A sky that washes, foil for a sun that washes out. Much as I love (after all these years in Florida) flash floods, too. Is this a poem? Notes toward a poem? My refrigerator magnet (confession, admonition, unfulfilling, self-fulfilling monotype) says No. An Irishman has an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustains him through temporary periods of joy. Oh, joy, how we laugh at you, pointing at ourselves. Down to one last creak of laughter. Last, what a laugh. Last (always or worthless) as in recentest.
Posted on: Mon, 17 Mar 2014 16:54:48 +0000
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