mountain above, sky below —> thunder above, fire below
Two balls, one strike
Home Office is plate
You’re early. Eggs waiting
Sunny side up.
Play ball!
With each of your poetic installments from Montana a sense of homesickness grows in me. I know it's a nostalgic illusion: Bozeman and the Valley has become unrecognizable, no match to memory. Except for one thing. Those mountains at sunset.
I feel weirdly vicariously homesick on your behalf. Reality is a strange thing.
Bozeman is growing on me, Jonathan! At least its sunrises. This poem seems built from magic!
Thanks, Gary -- it's growing on me, too!
Safe at home!
No challenge?
What me argue? I’m a poet not a philosopher, well maybe. . .
Two balls, one strike
Home Office is plate
You’re early. Eggs waiting
Sunny side up.
Play ball!
With each of your poetic installments from Montana a sense of homesickness grows in me. I know it's a nostalgic illusion: Bozeman and the Valley has become unrecognizable, no match to memory. Except for one thing. Those mountains at sunset.
I feel weirdly vicariously homesick on your behalf. Reality is a strange thing.
Bozeman is growing on me, Jonathan! At least its sunrises. This poem seems built from magic!
Thanks, Gary -- it's growing on me, too!
Safe at home!
No challenge?
What me argue? I’m a poet not a philosopher, well maybe. . .