Jacob rather frowns on swimming, but Bleu and Ohio Boy love it while Swami just grins “Om” before a letter from South Carolina says they’ve named their farm Bee Riddle Farm, which I find wonderfully poetic yet if the buzzers proliferate, shouldn’t it be Bee-Riddled Farm? ending with Love and God’s Peace, no doubt, but who ate all that sweet corn?

you no doubt recall a cheery visit in Rhode Island or a ferry trip to Block Island an hour-and-a-half each way in gray eight-foot swells (we, too, rent a Mo-Ped to zip around on while out there) or a smoky Cog Railroad to the top of Mount Washington, a strategy that beats hiking to the 6,288-foot-elevation’s windy sub-alpine summit

to know a good life is not easy just look at all that’s broken here knowing you miss so much is to concede abundance and blessing as well until the eyes move away from what’s harmonious see, a house wrapped in leaves repeats marriage and even the compost unassumingly transforms to its own succulence while the children expect everything before attaining focus, at last requited by frugal exercise where we may be generous

summer begins by one system, but remains Midsummer by the other wherein May Day, August 2, and Halloween initiate the change of seasons and Christmas then falls in the middle right up to the vernal equinox or well beyond as far as sunlight falling on the Earth is concerned winter’s over on Depression-era linoleum encircled by tuxedos and stovepipe hats

remember after two months racing highway construction crew deadlines your Indian dig crew unearthed an infant’s grave that justified the stall but nightfall forced departure and returning the next morning, you discovered the skull smashed, bones scattered across drunken greed, ignorance, or hatred that strikes repeatedly, yes, the repeated sound, as you relay it Take care

here we go again, vantage point, take stock and calibrate to relate general pleasures, though not of the dramatic variety, this insight is this what being adult is about, this always being behind at least never ahead of the pile of things to do, chores, goals, activities? responsible, even, for what we haven’t done? all this ecological preservation yielding dividends tying knots in the air, so how’s the fishing?

more than a leap draws me through limbs of imperfect distortion when ducking under its timeless shadow how you freely interrogate berries and dark-skinned nuts as if it matters where we land under countless utility lines and trees apart from the shoreline of slurping defiance

a once-removed cousin and new husband came for the 1812 Overture with puffs from cannons spotted before the booms a time delay with the musical score and then, the Esplanade Fourth fireworks about as close as you can get to the five barges, their computer- programmed pyrotechnics in the Charles just upstream, across from the Clam Shell with everyone listening to the live broadcast

do you really like me? I mean, nothing beyond some fool’s hazardous perspective up and by god safe in season, I’m whatever happens lovelier than that canopy maybe fully open lifting into play, hopefully without nonsense spreading

soon a dozen frontiersmen, each venturing out from the base camp as far as we can go through swamp and foothill within our own skulls where the bull moose and grizzly bear and horned owl call and sinister tribes compel strenuous rambling if we were to preserve our own thinning scalps, concede the unmarked route will force us to doubt our own skill and remove all excuses to others have beaver pelts or gold dust or speak of cannibals . affectionately