Hope, Without a Prescription

My previous "Hope" post made its way to a friend of the family from the neighborhood where I grew up.

Her lovely off-blog response included a poem from Emily Dickinson:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.

So amazingly appropriate for my Joy, my sweet wordless perpetual motion darling.

Hope. Together we learn to sing the tune without the words.

Procrastination

Procrastination tastes like a casserole
     of fridge-worn leftovers.
Pretend to ignore the mold;
What you can't see won't hurt much.
Add a bulging can of tomato sauce
     and too much garlic.
I know you can't finish it.
Neither could I.
Tomorrow's lunch --
     Leftover casserole.

I wrote that poem twenty years or so ago. Some things don't change much!

Too much stuff to do right now. Must get some leftovers off my plate before I do another REAL post. That next real one, however, will entail hula-hooping. And screaming electric guitar. And dancing Mennonites.

Till then!