My father turns in his grave toward Finland–meantime the sun covers the dead leaves with the colors of hope. So what if I can’t stand as tall as I used to? Walking this morning in the scrubbed air I think of human progress, remember what a nice idea it is.
Here’s to good ideas. And here’s to the single tree, a catalpa just outside my door which does not care how naked it is before the hieroglyphics of winter. Again, here we are in the shadow season and it feels like old news, the news reread just for the sake of reading.
Planet of the Blind 