Look, I say to him as I water the last
of the hollyhocks, small bursts
sprouting from the yellow-stick stalks

that all summer long sported baby pink
frilly numbers fluttering like tutus.
I hope you’re up there—wherever there is

Why today, of all days, when I drive to a small town where you used to take me to stroll and shop, I get a huge hit of you, I have no idea.

That we are hardwired to love and lose is what comes again and again—

Well, you don’t die during the week I visit—you want as much time as you can get on the planet, and you’re getting it—but you’re so close, you say, that you can see St. Peter when you’re in the shower.

The act of writing is a tremendous adventure into the unknown, always fraught with danger. But the deeper you go and the longer you work at your art, the greater will be your treasure. Pat Schneider