The Ink-Stained Wretch

What the hell do I know?

Somebody thinks I know more than I do and they've asked me to contribute to subcrawl a new link blog. So, I'm going to try and get more discipline over what winds up here and what goes over there.

We shall see what we shall see, as Grandma Betty used to say.

To the air in the lung...

My mom would have been 65 today. Doesn't seem like that much to ask, does it? I included this in her memorial service and it killed, so to speak. Still the best poem to read at your mom's funeral, evah.

Let Evening Come

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

Jane Kenyon

Even my six year old knows for sure...

I love how he "thinks" he may need a break...

Look What's Happened Down Here...

The stunning completeness of the destruction of New Orleans has captivated us for the last couple of days.



The New York Times Editorial on Bush's speech yesterday hits just the right note.



Randy Newman's "Louisiana 1927", a sad, beautiful song. Buy it here and I'll donate all my affiliate love to the Red Cross, with a ten times match from my very deep, ink-stained pockets.