One of the reasons I left San Francisco was the drought of ’77, when it rained but six inches. Craig Rock, a fellow poet and Milwaukee native, and I used to smoke a little mother nature and listen to a recording of a thunderstorm, just to get some weather in our veins. Whereas once I was drawn to the desert climate of California, I came to rejoice in the change of seasons.
Can you appreciate the dignity
of a birch flushed in amber?
It’s easy to love in spring
its rush of hue
but what of shades of gray?
Are they not part of the scheme?
Life’s not linear, more a saxophonist’s tune
Keys dancing on the moon, dissonance sets the mood
Sometimes high, sometimes low, from flat to sweet
A cubist’s plot, an illusion orthodox,
Are we not travelers solitaire? Ulysses all?
In November we remember.
Isn’t it ironic that so much evil is done in the name of good?