being a non-christian, non-catholic, non-pagan, non witch or warlock type (did I miss something?) makes celebrating these things a bit odd. But there is the children - or child. I want to give Jackson the best of childhood memories for his impending memoir so I aside personal beliefs and offer candy, presents and a good time had by all - sans the shooting of the Easter Bunny - I don't know how I am going to cover that one next year.
I jest about the bunny but did find another dead/dying raccoon behind the house of the walk out steps from the lower level. I allowed rigor to set in as I didn't want to handle a floppy dead two stone animal. I imagine this also gave his brethren time to grieve properly and if they didn't there is always the garbage can to go to for visitation until Thursday morning.
it's starting to rain and I must bring this inside.
On the front of good news - after a year or so of waiting I finally found the most talented cobbler and had new boots and a pair of New Balance (unpaid advertising) made for me. No, I am not some rich weirdo who can only wear shoes made for him - I am some weird cripple who needs shoes made a certain way so I can walk.
The new boot and shoes are so perfectly made I almost forget that I am crippled when I walk, almost if not for the pain. On the cycle I now completely forget that my leg isn't whole, that I am not broken. My ride to the food store yesterday was the best ride I'd taken since the accident.
If any readers need shoe mending and are in the north of Illinois - I strongly suggest going to Geneva Shoe Repair for this service (also, unpaid advertisement).
But back to the business of poetry.
it's monday, isn't it?
awoke, fitful night of dreaming
a chapter before sleep or
in interstellar time space conversion.
Pleiades, the seven sisters, gathering together,
gathered and looking down
in a pirouette of secular astonishment,
or not looking but close eyed
intersection of some young girls jeans;
these are the seven wives of the stationed
star rishis of the Great Bear.
stirring in twilight rest;
sextant guiding the way home.
- Hoc Scripsi