I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. Walk the dog of course. Say hello to the maple tree I pretend is my friend. I know, Basho, nothing in nature is my pal. I should celebrate this.
Because I love Bach more than I can say I tend not to write about the matter.
Lines from Lars Gustafsson:
And so I’m alone with the screeching gulls
Who’re are no concern of mine…
Which of course means a man has memories…
Robert Frost said famously: “A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.”
Went out in a rowboat at night, blind though I am, and drifted under stars. How would I get back to my spot of shore? Trust lovesickness.