First Known When Lost

I turned 70 today.

In this part of the world, the deciduous trees are empty, save for a few leaves fluttering drily on otherwise bare branches.

Where does one begin when it comes to autumn?

One afternoon last week, as I walked along the edge of a grove of pines and maples, I heard a bird's voice up ahead, high in a pine.

Forty-one years on, I retain very little from my three years of law school.

Over a lifetime, I have failed to give the moon the attention it deserves.

As I have mentioned here in the past, each day I read a poem in the morning and a poem in the evening.

The swallows have departed.

This modest (and, of late, fitful) undertaking owes its name to Edward Thomas.

Each morning, I read a poem.

On a recent afternoon walk, I heard an unseen owl call from somewhere off in the forest: "Hoo-hoo . . . hoo-hoo."

Solely by happenstance, this observation surfaced out of my memory during the past week: "The future's uncertain and the end is always near."

At Christmas, I turn to Thomas Hardy.

Most of the leaves have fallen.

Has any poet written as many beautiful and memorable lines as Yeats?

Once again, September.

One morning this week, as I walked along a shadowy but sun-dappled path through a grove of trees, I came upon a single golden pine needle hovering vertically in mid-air, at eye-level, above the path.

As I am wont to do several times a year, I recently returned to the poetry of Walter de la Mare.

Over the past two months I have spent much of my reading time moving back and forth within the Spring volume of R.

It is that time of year once again: I step out the front door, walk for an hour or so, and return, all the while accompanied by birdsong (occasionally punctuated by a crow's caw-caw-caw from off in the distance, or from directly above -- out of the blue).

All I ask for in life is peace and quiet, accompanied by an occasional fugitive encounter with Beauty and Truth.

Each year I grow fonder of the robins who spend the winter here, gathering into small flocks, making their way across the meadows and through the woodlands.

"Life passes swiftly, hedged by sorrow;/how long before you've lost it -- a scene like this?"

Human nature being what it is, the world has always been, and will always be, beset with utopian busybodies who have taken leave of their senses.

 " . . . like a dove/That slants unswerving to its home and love."