I went to Canterbury Village- (golf course /apartment complex/retirement location) for a fasting blood draw today - something I haven't done in years, to check my cholesterol levels, iron, etc. It's a good deal at the local community Focus on Health - a whole battery of test for me was just $37, with no need to show insurance info -then the lab mails the results, and then I can take the information with me to my family physician.

But I don't want to talk about blood draws today - I want to say something about poetry. Here is something I wrote:

A poem has its own life.

Born in the psyche, chosen out of the unconscious collective, it's found sitting quietly in the heart.

I no more write it than I own the land on which I'm standing:

it simply flows through me and I give it form.

I are grateful it chose me as its voice, because

it can't be understood or explained, it just is.

so, along that line of thought, here is a poem for today:

After Easter Poem

A tick crawled up the little girl's neck,
making the hairs rise and thus
her aware of it
before it made it home-free
lost in the giant forest of her scalp.

We don't imagine the tick as having a soul,
at least, not in the same way we flirt with that thought
as something we might attribute
like something spiritual or eternal
to the butterfly
or the ladybug
that is determinedly creeping its way down the length of the church pew. -SLG

My wish to you is that you get out and enjoy the day. Tailwind - signing off.