Sunday
12 November 2017

— 100 yards off, most of the leaves gone, I can now see the Ringsted road again.

Good Morning All,

I’m afraid I have yet another insect-related poem for you. It happened a couple of nights ago pretty much as reported. 

I can add that Johs will be back in Massachusetts in time for Thanksgiving, and Holly is shifting her child-psychologist practice closer to home.

As for the bug itself, I was careful to put the book back on the shelf above me with the pages still open. If it shows up again in the next few days, I shall invite it to come live on the driver’s side sun visor of my Colt, where—as I hope you recall—Professor Bentham spent so many happy days.

Worry in the Wee Hours
Iris Noble

The wind was up and about again
Like someone in the backyard
Looking for something lost,
Banging the trashcan lid,
Tipping over the wheelbarrow,
And then the sleet in angry spurts
Rattling against the window glass.

My son in the Congo yet another
Week working on disaster relief,
My daughter with too much driving
The icy winter winding roads,
I switched on the lamp and fetched
My bedside Huck Finn, to read again
Twain’s ode to the majestic river.

And then atop the page, a bug so small
It could fit within the belly of each a,
Began to float down the lines, seeming
To seek passage between the words
Like a raft in a vastness of dark water,
So that—soothed—I hugged my kids
Goodnight and drifted back into sleep.

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron

P.S. Two Holly snaps: