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Connections: March 30.18

It’s there

in spectral glow

an orb of lustrous being

something that we know

yet just beyond our seeing

elusive and alluring

it hovers in a mist

with silhouette and shadow

slyly obstructionist.

Still writers strain and grope

— it really is absurd —

for the Holy Grail beclouded:

that precise


right word.



More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives for this remarkable image of the writer’s brain.




Connections: March 29.18

I wish I could send you, dear reader, a bit of this morning. We are due for yet another day of rain (have mercy!), but right now the rain is merely a hint, heavy in the air. It is barely day, but there is enough light to make the budding trees crisp against a bland sky. They aren’t moving. The pond is steady glass. The air is early-spring warm and utterly still, as though afraid if it breathed it would cease to be.

I can hear a mourning dove and some kind of chirpy thing, both chanting their Lauds, each in its own way. I can also hear the rainwater draining into the pond, a gurgling antiphonal to the birdsong. There is an occasional car which sounds far away. Mostly I am swathed in quiet. I feel like an intruder, but I stay, also trying not to breathe.

Have you ever wanted to put a moment in your pocket so you could pull it out again when you need it?





Connections: March 25.18

Face to the wind

I look ahead

goodbye to the old

now the new instead.

It’s a digital thing

unlike my old grand

a sign of the time

like the gnarl of my hand.

But I admit I’m befuddled

in this alien realm:

am I at a piano

or the Enterprise helm?