Missing those days of old on this New Year's Eve . . .
Swans and Snowy Egrets
(c. 1958)
Each freeze-frame recollection is a
treat
I stash to savor when the road gets
rough,
devouring the bitter with the sweet—
you might say I’m addicted to the
stuff.
This smorgasbord is where I go to cheat
time’s arrow or to call the black dog’s
bluff;
where tares are never sown among the
wheat,
and everything is cool and up to snuff.
As when I see the paint-by-number kit
painstakingly completed by his wife,
who, out of mother love and mother wit,
has tried to trim a plain, no-nonsense
life.
While he, who in my eyes stands ten
feet tall,
frames the kitsch and hangs it on the
wall.
