Red Shouldered Hawk, Buteo lineatus - first two photos from across the road with window down, last photo same side as hawk through the wind-screen

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More - By Don Blanding

 

Somehow

I've tried for many an hour and minute
To think of this world without me in it.
I can't imagine a new-born day
Without me here . . . somehow . . . some way.
I can not think of autumn's flare
Without me here . . . alive . . . aware.
I can't imagine a dawn in spring
Without my heart awakening.

These treasured days will come and go
At swifter pace . . . but this I know . . .
I have no fear . . . I have no dread
Of that marked day that lies ahead.
My flesh will turn to ash and clay
But I'll be here . . . Somehow . . . some way!

 

 

 

 

 

Vagabond's House - Don Blanding . . . . . the end of this long poem describes my dream life with Carol as well as the house of dreams

and we come to the end of this long and endearing poem - and though some thoughts are outdated in today's world of 'politically correct' there was never a malice aforethought of expression and only a loving capture of an envisionment of what might be at the end of the day

I’ll go. And my house will fall away
While the mice by night and the moths by day
Will nibble the covers off all my books,
And the spiders weave in the shadowed nooks.
And my dogs . . . I’ll see that they have a home
While I follow the sun, while I drift and roam
To the ends of the earth like a chip on the stream,
Like a straw on the wind, like a vagrant dream;
And the thought will strike with a swift sharp pain
That I probably never will build again
This house that I’ll have in some far day
Well . . . it’s just a dream house, anyway.

 

Through Out The Tree

 

Morning Mistigon