|Addendum November, 2006
The soul enjoys a break in the journey
for some fun and relaxation.
We hope you find some along the way!
Patricia and I have enjoyed the poetry of William Stafford,
an American poet who died in the last decade.
We have picked out a couple cute pieces….
In the play Amy did not want to be
anybody; so she managed the curtain.
Sharon wanted to be Amy. But Sam
wouldn’t let anybody be anybody else—
He said it was wrong. “All right,” Steve said,
“I’ll be me, but I don’t like it.”
So Amy was Amy, and we didn’t have the play.
And Sharon cried.
Choosing a Dog
“It’s love,” they say. You touch
the right one and a whole half of the universe
wakes up, a new half.
Some people never find
that half, or they neglect it or trade it
for money or success and it dies.
The faces of big dogs tell, over the years,
that size is a burden: you enjoy it for a while
but then maintenance gets to you.
When I get old I think I’ll keep, not a little
dog, but a serious dog,
for the casual, drop-in criminal—
My kind of dog, unimpressed by
dress or manner, just knowing
what’s really there by the smell.
Your good dogs, some things that they hear
they don’t really want you to know—
it’s too grim or ethereal.
And sometimes when they look in the fire
they see time going on and someone alone,
but they don’t say anything.