Mezzotint.

Mezzotint.

Demurring under
timeless, freezing, reeling stars
is this nascent spring.

Life is … good?
It’s a nascent spring with balmy air. I love my little Southern city and my kind neighbors. My friends are the best.
I’ve lost some of that pot belly. I recovered from coronavirus. There are beautiful, amazing people in my life who enchant me and inspire me and make me laugh. I’m getting nice compliments about my writing from strangers, and I’m excited about some new goals there.
Am I in danger of becoming happy?
Etching.

Or … holey socks. Time to buy more.
I have no idea why I do a number on socks the way I do. Must be my cloven hooves.
Update — a pal of mine on Facebook jumped in to suggest that I have “clown hooves,” and I think that’s an inspired rejoinder.
Feign innocence, you
sly, lascivious dove, you
feral butterfly.

“Haifa,” Léon-François Comerre
20th Century Studios.

Martin Towers recently moved form Northern Ireland to Wales and now works there as a support worker. Moths are a big thing for him and the Angle Shades is his favourite.
An old man called Jimmy, nearly dead,
Gets up in a church hall and does a good dance.
A pigeon, dressed in grey, chases a crow
Who carries his mate’s egg.
A man walks into a village after fifty years.
Across a bridge.
Rain hangs in the sky like old curtains
Or ivy creepers reaching down.
The froth on the inside of a glass
Shows a man playing an accordion, with his legs wide apart.
You can take a man from the fields
But you cannot take the fields from the man.
In a place called Wasps Nest
A man remembers things.
A bird in a cage called redcap.
A girl in a shawl in cold weather
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“Rest at Harvest.” Oil on canvas.

So I washed my comforter and submitted four poems to The Irish Times. It’s a long shot, but hey.
The poems, I mean — not washing the comforter. That I can usually pull off.