…and all that we have
to love may be what’s near
in the cold, even then.
– William Stafford (“So Long”)
So much for fleeting fantasies and retouched dreams
that seldom see canvas, that cannot feel the cold
nor help you walk the uneven ground of shadows
and circumstance, anymore than unravel chance designs
of lichen on speckled granite rock. No perfect world,
no perfect perception left to rise from the herd,
the human press, to warm the soul. We wander off,
letting go of this and that we thought we would become—
we bought or thought we stood for when it mattered.
Even now in this instant, we are not the same, yet
near at hand is the tool and the template, the axe
and handle, everything we touch at the level of love.
drycrikjournal 
John,
This current post is proof of what will be lost if the USPS goes belly up. As a boy, how many letters did you receive and write, polishing the skills you so readily use today. The NYTimes today has an article regarding this, which set me to wondering where our future historians will come from without the letters that might have been written?
Phyllis
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Here’s the NY Times link that Phyllis references:
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