It Was Monday, a Good Day

I hired a local Landscape Artist to cut the weeds. We'll see how he works out.

Also yesterday, I revised an old, old poem:

Desiderata

Could I write with my heart, and not my hand,
each poem would rise, original and plain
as the great oaks that on the mountain stand,
or a quick shower of September rain.
I fear I'm marked by all the poems I've read,
in neighbors' gardens sniffing all that bloomed,
till stems and blossoms hang about my head,
a patchwork veil of all I have consumed.

If muses do exist, then let them flood
my soul with light to wash my verses free,
nor dip my pen in alien wine or blood
to counterfeit the heart's true currency.
Let elements as rough as tears and mud
and rainbows, all my ink and parchment be.