‘Don’t make him go.’ ‘I’m not.’ ‘He’s only just now Come in to play.’ ‘He’d rather be outside, ’ Said the boy’s father. ‘Let him go outside. He’s old enough to want to help.’ ‘Then next year,’ Said the boy’s mother. ‘Let him set the table That’s more a help than outside splitting wood.’ ‘Let Mary,’ said the father. ‘Mary? Set The table? Let her help with splitting wood!' The mother countered. ‘After all, she’s older. Why can’t your daughter?’ ‘She hasn’t asked me, has she?’ ‘And does she need to?’ ‘Jack did.’ ‘Why not ask her?’ ‘For God’s sake, let them both go,’ said their father. ‘They’re old enough.’ Just then the boy walked in Still in boots and a hooded jacket—somehow Nonetheless guessing at the argument. His glance raced from father to mother. ‘Can I?’ He asked. His mother paused. She’d carried in The plates and silverware and had begun To set them. ‘If you’re asking me, then no,’ She said. ‘You’re father thinks you’re old enough; I don’t.’ ‘I’m old enough,’ argued the boy. ‘Then go straight to Grandpa if you want to help And do exactly what he tells you. No hospitals Today. No little boys who’ve chopped their hands off.’ ‘Then I’ll tell Mary,’ said the father. The boy Ran out the door but never having seen His father run to do a chore, stopped, walked, Assumed an air of purpose. Snow was falling And had already fallen, not in gales But in that way November snowfalls shroud The yellowed grass and drape the Queen Anne’s lace Anew with shawls. The maple in the dooryard, Its leaves let down, let down no shadows, evening Descending overall but for the dooryard And lighted house behind the boy. The path To where the wood was split went first before The shed-roofed bays then out behind the barn where The log length wood was piled. The closest bay Stored their discarded toys. Among them were A tricycle, its rims half buried in The dirt floor’s ruin and the runner sleds That just a year ago already would have Skated November’s early snow—the lettering Faded and flaking from their slatted backs. The boy might yet have pulled them out but for A baby gate that sometime during the summer Was forced into the only narrow entry (As if to bar a child’s going in Or toys from coming out again). The snow Curled over the metal lip of roof Above the shed-bay’s open mouth and faded Into a ghostly exhalation. Drawing His hood tight as he walked, the boy half stumbled— A knee to snow. The middle bay was where His brother stored his car on blocks. The right Front block had sunk into the dirt so that The grill’s off-kilter grin would chase the boy In nightmares. The car still needed work— And every day less likely to be done. The doors, fenders and hood were primed With spray paint (underneath the priming gray The paint’s original red) but here and there The rust was rusting through. But mostly when His brother visited the car he’d take A girl along. The boy would want to follow But every time he’d asked them what they planned His brother laughed. ‘We’re going out to play A little hide & seek,’ he’d say. ‘You’re not Invited.’ Then the boy, being troubled by What kind of hide & seek there was to play Inside a car, made plans some night to follow And spy; and meant to soon. Sometimes they’d stay For just a little while and sometimes late Into the night. Returning then they’d kiss And laugh as though in seeking they had found A thousand hiding places. Another gust Of snow. The shrunken spines of black-eyed Susans— Their desiccated eyes were motionless And blind to what remained of autumn’s twilight Or the boy passing by. The furthest bay Was where his father kept the tractor—lights Lifted like attentive ears, hood tarped And cutter bar drawn up. Some days in summer The boy’s father might leave the tractor out Midfield, dusted with chaff. The boy might climb Into the seat as though he could ignite The tractor’s heart and bring the gulping lungs To life again. The metal’s heavy odor Of grease and oil clung to his clothes like The scissored grasses. He hardly knew the work Of tractors other than they worked the fields; And where he would have traveled had it rumbled To life meant less to him than understanding What force of architecture moved the steel, What housed explosions turned the giant wheels Imprinting the earth. ‘The cruel machine,’ His mother’d say, ‘That cuts the summer’s bloom— Too much to call it hate—but let the field For once run riot. We’ve no use for hay, And have no livestock. Let it go uncut Or cut it late and let the wildflowers route The grasses.’ ‘It’s for love of place I mow it,’ His father’d answer. ‘When has autumn ever spared A meadow? And there are other reasons Besides.’ If afterward he’d never give them He’d nonetheless bring back a mason jar So clumsily full of flowers they’d sometimes topple Over the kitchen table just as if A scythe had lain them down again. The boy hewed Close by the barn where jimsonweed had grown. He stepped over burst thorn-apples—their rictus Of seed and snow; and passing by he snagged The others in his mittens—thorny bulbs Still topping branches; tendrils spiraling upwards As if they were a final parting breath— The smoke of humid summer days turned brittle And motionless. Any other day He’d have taken the shortcut through the barn, A storehouse of forgotten generations Who owned the property a hundred years And more before the boy’s own family. Sometimes he’d spend the hours picking through The slow haphazard regolith of mice And straw to find a broken tool half buried: Old bottles, cut nails, rusted pliers, saw-blades And hammers missing handles; these he’d stockpile In crates he made himself—half a dozen He’d cobbled out of scavenged lumber ridden With nail holes. The boy had found foundations Grown through with ironwood—remains of buildings A farmer might take lumber from. He’d wonder What ghosts still searched the leaf-strewn cellar holes Looking for the long forgotten button That once had rolled between the rough-sawn floorboards— Themselves long since dissolved; and then he’d flee The ironwood thicket. If there’d ever been More than the lumber worth saving then either That too was lost or in the barn—the lumber, The tools, the parts (their use gone out of memory), And the machinery still following The beasts that drew them, wooden ligaments Consumed, their frames corroded and collapsing Into the sediment. And yet the boy Will mend their failing joints, imagines them— Painted and metal polished—renewed Behind a tractor’s thumping pulse. If not A tractor then he’d clear the cobwebbed arteries From the barn and there stable either ox Or horse; he’d load the hayloft with fresh hay And breathe the fumes of life into the farmyard Or so, at least, the boy imagined doing And more. He followed round the barn’s far corner, The muddy yard where log-length firewood Was piled—the time of year the yard Rolled seamlessly into the neighboring fields, Their hollow ribs no taller than the yard’s Own trampled grasses. Distantly, the ridge Of field that overlooked the barn and farmhouse Grew light with snow and darkened with the shadow Of early winter. The boy had often Come out this far and been distracted by The sloping fields, wondering at the world Beyond the world he saw. He dreamt an ocean Lay just beyond the distant ridge, and beds Of incandescent sands and whirlpools Of liquid vertebrae. He dreamt of whales Who glimmered with the giant eyes of angels; And waters trembling over them like outspread wings. Their contemplation wakened him; he feared The dark that sank his bed into their mystery; The turmoil of their wake. And though some nights, In a half-forgotten sleep, he rode The ocean’s slippery back from shore to shore, He’d waken to horizons nothing more Than his own room, the bed, the sheets wound round him, A cluttered floor. The path veered left between The logs and barn. The boy tugged at his hood As wind once more drew down a shroud of snow, Thrown from the metal roof. He dug his hands Into his jacket, hunched, and kept his eyes Half shut until the gust rose over top The roof again as though the barn itself Breathed forth the ghostly apparition, vanishing As fleetingly as it appeared. The boy Stopped. The steel of the splitting maul Gleamed in the icy mud; just by the maul A split wedge wedged in the wood. The boy’s grandfather Lay on his side, eyes open, the splitting maul’s handle Loosely in his hand. The old man’s scarf Rose up, half lifted by a sudden gust, Then fell again. The boy stepped backwards, stumbled, Stepped back again. A little further on The cattails in the farmyard’s pond had blown— And silence where the redwing blackbirds shrilled Before they’d flown. He gave a startled cry. His sister lightly cupped his shoulder, Then she stepped past him kneeling by their grandfather. She turned him gently to his back. She leaned As if unsure; then being sure, she closed His eyes. She gazed at him and neither she Nor the boy moved. 'Okay,' she finally said. She stood, went to the boy, and took his hand. 'Come on,' she said. And then said nothing more. Blackbirds By me, Patrick Gillespie | March 27, 2021Continue reading
I was just reading an article in Quanta Magazine and lo and behold there’s an evolutionary biologist, Arik Kershenbaum, who speculates, as I do (and did in my poem Bicycles) that alien life is probably going to look a lot like life on earth. You can read the article here. Not only that, but Kershenbaum has written a book on the subject, the Zoologist’s Guide to the Galaxy.
I guess Bicycles was too late to make it into the forward.
I’m going to be buying this book for both my twin daughters, both of whom are majoring in earth sciences with an interest in exobiology.
Crabs rule the universe. I tell you that now. Don’t be shocked in the years to come. You heard it here.
More poems now that I have time. This poem, or dramatic monologue, was written for Harriet Whitbread, who performed my poem, Erlkönigin. I wrote it over the week-end, with Bicycles finally done, and wanted to write her something she could really have fun with—my way of thanking her. If you’ve never read Robert Browning’s My Last Duchess, then you should read that first or you’ll be apt to miss the humor and inside jokes. As usual, I enjoy writing pastiches like these that turn the originals a little upside down and a little inside out. As I see it, why let the men have all the fun? Enjoy.
My Last Husband L.A. [Enter Madame de B. wearing a caftan and sipping a whisky sour.] That’s my last husband pictured on the wall Looking as if he were alive. The great Photographer Pierre Blanchet insisted— And spent the week-end taking photographs. No doubt he would have stayed a few weeks longer. I’ve since been told Pierre had fallen madly In love with him. It mattered neither men Nor women, everyone who met him loved him. Yet after all these years I’m not surprised You didn’t recognize him—being younger. Fame, as they say, is fleeting. Even so And only having seen his photograph, You’re not the first to ask me who he was— What with that jaw, that brow, that piercing gaze. And not for me. Oh no. No. All of that Was for Pierre or rather I should say His camera. Was I there? Oh yes, although You’d never guess. Before he was discovered He tended bars. He made me whiskey sours. That’s how he was. So thoughtful. Whisky sours For me and for Pierre a Cosmopolitan, A Mai Tai for the bellboy, Juleps for The scullery maid. They loved him. Everyone Adored him. Oh but they adored him. Why Any trifle batting eyes at him He’d treat as if he’d known them all their lives. A movie star! Imagine that! You’d think There was no point in living where we lived: This villa, planned by Lars van Alderhof; Its stunning view of the Pacific ocean; An architectural beacon! But I digress. As I was saying: Everyone who met him— Well, I was always being told how lucky I was. How fortunate. I was the envy Of womankind! Imagine being married, They’d say, to Jason of the Argonauts, To Robinhood, to Tamburlaine and Harry The goddamn Fifth! The day the photograph Was taken, on that very day, my agent Called to tell me I’d been chosen. Me! The starring role in La Belle Dame. I’m sure, Of course, you’ve heard of it. I won an Oscar. Alas but that my husband never knew. He knew that I would star. Was any man Supportive as he was? Was any wife So lucky? He at once made known to all That I, his unexampled wife, would star In La Belle Dame; then added sans merci. Indeed. The laughter was uproarious. Oh how They loved him. Sans merci. Indeed. I’m sure You know the story. Last that he was seen He’d driven off in his belovèd Aston Martin. Gone, but for this: his photograph; still smiling As if alive. Shall we repair to the salon? My agent will of course review the contract— I’m sure a mere formality considering Your studio’s well-known—munificence. Just follow me. And those? The magazines? I had the covers framed. Quite lovely. Taken Shortly after I had won the Oscar For La Belle Dame—and while touring Italy. The statue in the background overlooked A gorgeous cove and was quite famous. Sculpted By Hans of Strasbourg and entitled: Neptune Taming a seahorse. Tragically, there was An accident. The workmen who’d been hired To clean and renovate the statue must Have loosened here and there a bolt, forgetting To tighten them—a cable snipped?—who knows. (Whatever does a woman know about Such things.) But down went Neptune, down Into the waves with nothing whatsoever To brake his fall. The chariot was found But never Neptune—no doubt swept out To sea. As luck would have it though, just Neptune And nothing else. The seahorse, so it’s claimed, Still stands just as it was—and still untamed. [Exeunt Madame de B.] Dedicated Harriet Whitbread
Needless to say, and just like Browning’s poem, mine is based on true events.
Just as the Cosmos is remarkable In its homogeneity, so life Surprises not in its variety, But similarities—a living world May neither be too close nor orbiting Too distant from its sun, must be rocky, Have water and a molten core’s enveloping Magnetosphere. Consider living worlds Like organisms, each convergently Evolving oxygen, a temperate climate And life. And just as they're alike in their Constituent elements, the life arising Evolves alike—prokaryotic and Eukaryotic over billions of years Divided into plants and animals. The laws of evolution are not altered By time, locale or species. Anywhere There’s life there’s more that’s recognizable Than alien, more that universally Applies not just to life’s emergence but Also to sentience, intelligence And civilization, for in every world, Where though the sun is unfamiliar, Where night is visited by stranger tides And constellations, where though the byways And thoroughfares traverse implausible fields Under alien skies, you still will find The bicycle. There are an infinite number Among as many worlds. The universe Is everywhere replete with life, some worlds Awash in microscopic biomes While others teem with wilderness; but where Intelligence and sentience evolve So does the necessary wheel and means To turn the wheel: the chain, gears, frame and sprocket Both different and alike in their design— Blueprints of the physiology And minds inventing them. In any world Where there’s a child’s bicycle, there’s elsewhere In any quarter of the universe Another likewise trimmed with streamers, spangles And balanced on a kickstand. Were it possible To bridge the light years with a bicycle By pedaling or by a sail affixed To catch the winds of other Milky Ways; Or to visit on a summer’s day An undiscovered world; to gaze at nightfall At nebulae; and were there, anchored To every handlebar, a telescope To navigate the air (and wine and blankets In every basket); then bicycles Would populate the intervening skies, Would coast like comets through the scattered stars And glitter in the light. If on an evening You find a square of earth to unfold Your blanket and to gaze at constellations, You’ll see a thousand thousand worlds with life And yet see none. In every world you’ll see A thousand thousand bicycles and yet Not one. You’ll peer into another’s eyes, A billion intermittent years gone by, Whose gaze meets yours if only for an instant, Yet never know. Ride your bicycle The little while you can—and wait no more; Though a bicycle won’t ferry you Across the pathless oceans of the Cosmos, This poem has never only been about The bicycle—but our imagination. The Universe is full of bicyclists Who dream of navigating, just like you, The same intractable distances, To view, if for a day, another moon, Another sun—and you. So little Are our allotted days, so impossible— The grandeur, the sublimity, the Universe; Let your imagination be the bicycle And what before had been beyond your reach Will be the passage of an afternoon. Will be the nebulae that fade like leaves Among worlds moving darkly and unseen; Will be the radiant whirlwinds birthing stars And stars new worlds. There will be life and bicycles And for a little while—yours.
Bicycles by Me, Patrick Gillespie | February 14th 2021Continue reading
An actress’s reading of Die Erlkönigin is always something I’ve wished for. Then, just over a month ago Harriet Whitbread, the head of Voice & Learning Support at the Fourth Monkey Actor Training Company, emailed to ask if I’d enjoy her own reading of the poem.
I confess that when I read this poem publicly, I sometimes can’t make it to the end. Goethe’s original poem, Erlkönig, was and is profoundly meaningful to me in a way that I could only translate by writing Die Erlkönigin. Ms. Whitbread shared that she also had trouble reading to the end and that is, in a sense, as much as I ask from the poem.
Please enjoy Whitbread’s beautiful performance.
Harriet Whitbread is Head of Voice & Learning Support at the Fourth Monkey Actor Training Company located at the The Monkey House, 97-101 Seven Sisters Road, London, N7 7QP. You can visit the Fourth Monkey website here.
The devil knows how to tell a lie.
He’ll con the foolish through and through
Impeccably dressed in a coat and tie.
Nobody hears the poor man’s cry
And anyhow what can you do?—
The devil knows how to tell a lie.
He’ll tell you (if you ask him why):
‘I’d not be here, if it weren’t true,
Impeccably dressed in a coat and tie.’
And though each day a thousand die
Success is for the chosen few.
The devil knows how to tell a lie.
I bet you think you’d never try
But he knows well you’d like it too—
Impeccably dressed in a coat and tie.
The world is burning by and by
But what he does is done for you.
The devil knows how to tell a lie
Impeccably dressed in a coat and tie.
June 2 2020
- The poem that follows has spilled blood. I’ve put just about everything else aside to write it these last few months. It’s a refutation. I won’t tell you of who or which poet but any reader familiar with poetry will recognize its inspiration. I didn’t want it to just be a pastiche. That is, though it hews closely in form and rhetoric to its inspiration and though I’ve adopted the original poet’s way of thought, imagery and elusive argument (even his liking of antiquated words and syntax) I wanted the poem to be mine. That’s hard. Readers who remember my last poem will see that it still lingers with me in my final stanza. But. Done. You won’t find anything like this anywhere else. Enjoy. As for me: On to other poems that have waited patiently.
The apostasies of a woman’s lips
On an afternoon at the hotel.
The orange sun brings her colluding with
Persimmons on a Sunday beneath the palms
Of Santa Cruz. Upon a bed sheet lies
A dissolution of desires saying
There’s this and only this; and that if afterward
The waves confide in the brutal architecture
Of consummation there will still be evenings
Under the umbrellas of Capitola,
The large procession of its lighted buildings
Where women walk in splendor; evening colloquies
Of a green harbor and the dimming waves—
Dimmed for the contemplation of the women
And contemplating on the women walking.
Why should her beauty not be worldly?
What is to her the fixed divinity
Of the high, gold-enameled angel, wrought
In her own image, never rising nor
Descending? What to her her coterie
Of holy emblems? Shall she find no comfort
In earthly totems? Nothing is divine
And there is nothing that is not divine
Both in her and without her: autumn’s frail,
Confiding sky, the heart’s divide beholding
The sky; the uncharted snow’s descent, hers
Upon her lover’s bed. These are the measure—
Her soul creating and created by
The world: the pomegranate’s stain before
The blackbird’s consuetudinary cry.
Mary had her immaculate conception,
No lover bruised her thighs, nor any sweet
Soil lingered there; she moved with unstained feet
Among the winemakers—a miracle,
Walked among generations undisturbed,
In holy revelry, until our own
Discerning, unabashed, surmised descent—
The earth’s blood rendered with our own; where even
The priests discerned it in Galapagos.
Shall we be mute? When was it ever
Other but that a woman’s gait be broken
By the shapeful bounty of a man’s motion?
When was it ever other than that we
To each other are all the paradise
We’ll know, of love, of sorrow, consummation?
She says, “I am content he wakes me, questions
My sinews when the morning’s sun first salts
The odorous sheets. But in my lover’s absence
Shall swallows not contend?—the plum not taste
As sweet?—the berry?” Inasmuch as autumn
Exhausts the yielded fruits of summer,
The turmoil of the sun is unabated.
Even as lilacs cool beneath the moon
Desirous roots divide the earth, confound
And undermine. No edifice endures
As the body will endure—no cloister,
Cathedral, academe—as blood endures;
As the ecstatic foison of the sun
Abides within the lover and beloved,
Their impassioned breaths annealing their tongues.
“Becalmed,” she says, “and the body wearied,
I choose to contemplate the spiritual.”
From eros springs desire, being desire;
The mother of the sacred and profane—
She populates our dreams; proffers the apple
Flavoring lips and thighs, that although tasting
Of ecstasy, tastes too of bitterness,
And loss; yet nonetheless we eat: no fruit
Spits forth the seed until the flesh be parted;
Until the green calamity of April
Is reaped by August’s laboring sun. Late hour—
The women lie with men; eros spreads
The evening’s garment over them. If otherwise
The soul know no respite but this, though suffering,
Though weary, what more than to love—and be loved?
Is there desire in paradise? How else
Do lovers speak? How else if never thigh
To thigh; if mutual labor never dust
Their sun-regarded flanks? Is her apron
Forever burdened by the unbruised fruit
And his swagger never altered being
Perplexed by hers? What purpose to a man’s
Proportions or a woman’s where without death
They never need make love, give birth, or nurturance?—
Yet it was never us in paradise,
But paradise in us—in us the dreamt of
Elation of an ageless afternoon
Discovered in a kiss—nor the shores
Of an elysium but our perishing whispers
At midnight. Paradise is in desire.
Sinuous and orgiastic, the women
Wheel and cant devotion to the Earth
Not in dominion but as Earth might be,
Its curling waters thrumming in the heart,
Its seasons churning in the blood of hips
And groin. The moon descends among them, fierce,
Unveiled. They voice the cunning of the river
That kneads the dour root and rubs against
The skin of April’s melting, women not
As goddesses might be, but goddesses
Themselves in whom the summer’s revelations
Are consummated. Even afterward
Though autumn breaks the year end’s faltering gait
Their own describes the memory of the dew
That slaked their feet; the lilt of the summer’s liquor.
She hears, among the startled flight of thrushes,
Girls cry: ‘The porch of Ithaca is not
Our resting place, but ours are voices rising
From every shore.” The chaos of our being
Is all the world we know: not the sun,
The dinted summer fields, a midday’s rainfall
Or skimming swallows; not the course of autumn
Altering the braided grasses but they take
Their drink from us; berries their sweetness from
Our mouths; the wind that scuffs the evening’s waters
Our breath and longing. Where the starlings flock
Above a dangling moon—where black as words
They slip the knotted cords of verse, arising
Out of the discourse of desire—the mind
Arises and, containing them, is made whole.
February 2nd, 2019 by me, Patrick Gillespie
- The following was inspired by Emily Wilson’s translation of the Odyssey. Specifically, read the closing paragraph in my previous post: Emily Wilson’s Odyssey. I did a few things differently with this poem. I roughed it out first, something I rarely do; then the blank verse revision. I’ve also been reading Shakespeare’s late plays, the romances, especially with a mind to his late style; and in combination with a book by Russ McDonald called Shakespeare’s Late Style. Historically, Shakespeare’s later verse has been considered problematic and was, by later poets like Pope, revised if not excised. Not to me. The syntactic “incoherence” of Shakespeare’s late verse is unmatchably beautiful. So, by writing the following, I wanted to learn from it. I combined the epithets found in Homer with the syntactic addition, divagation, delay, elision and suspension typical of Shakespeare’s late style. I know this isn’t any way to write in the 21st century, but me and my poetry have gone our own way.
Odysseus, wily navigator, you
Who have endured a thousand harborless sorrows,
I too have suffered.
••••••••••••I, being sent to launder
Your mistress’s apparel in the river
Or often, by myself, to bring from orchards
A desired olive, fig or grape, was also
Betrayed by those you’ve slain—made by them
A slave to slaves—my vessel desecrated
My lading mired and diminished, sorted
With weeds and brackish waters—yet for that
••••••••••••Odysseus, ingenious King—
Tell him, your minstrel with the wine stained fingers
Who sings of wayward tides, of witches, Gods
And far-flung isles, that I was also lost
Longing for home who had no home to search for;
And tell your songster in your rage you snared
My sisters by one rope between a pillar
And dome; and that we were together lifted,
Each beside the other, nooses round
Our necks until our feet no longer touched
The earth—the knots tight as a luthier’s string.
Tell your songster, though he sings of you
To tell of the twelve girls who were like
Thrushes that spread their wings to fly at last
But could not. Though struggling, we only breathed
To take another dying breath—our agony
••••••••••••Tell him: ‘Sing of girls, of slaves
To slaves, who twitched a little while but not
For long; whose rags were left behind, bone broken
And creaking in the winds of Ithaca.”
Tell him that we waited to be lain
Among the corpses we ourselves had carried
From the blood-soaked hall.
••••••••••••So long as sings your minstrel,
Odysseus, so long will fly from us
The last syllable of our breath: that far
From Ithaca, cries of murder, bloodshed
And vengeance—where the grass at evening shivers
In sea-spray and the noiseless spider sifts
The wind—was seen a startled thrush that cried out,
Took flight above the drumming waters, even
Above the dissolution of the air,
Into the spreading fingers of the Milky Way.
March 12th 2018 by me, Patrick Gillespie
There’s nothing left but overall
Remnants of what had once been fall;
Even where a week before
A leaf or two blew through the door
The dwindling days have turned to soot
The little traveling underfoot.
Snow will follow soon enough
Careening through the unmown scruff
Of jimson weed and bush clover,
Nothing apt to be covered over
With just a midday’s squall—but soon
Winter will stay the afternoon.
Then who will afterward remember
The few days readied since September?—
The ghostly sighs of thimbleweed,
The bony knuckles of the reed,
Whole fields of startled hair turned white
Before the year end’s stricken flight.
I wouldn’t ask but that I know
It’s not just seasons come and go.
When ice gives way to watercress
And all of April’s loveliness,
Remember, though the days are few,
November has its flowers too.
by me | January 8 2018
- This is my first audio recording using my new YETI microphone. My reading of the poem is just okay, but then I’m never satisfied that way. Best that I never hear myself. The poem itself is one I started not in November of last year but the year before, with a haiku. I finally devoted the time to finishing it.
····in February—the comforter drifting over
106 February 20th 2016 | bottlecap