I ate an ice cream sandwich, so good and delicious, and today life is good, life is delicious, to take a chunk of peanut butter, ice milk, living history, farms laughing brooks when I was four, and my father took me fishing for brown trout, nothing like brown trout from uncle Lloyd's creek, hiss and sizzle with the frying pan making good lunches, and suppers, the long days, and uncle Clair's cows, the squirt of fresh milk from the teat , those cows feeding and being milked, eighty or so brown cows, and we had pitchers of fresh milk for lunch, living out that long summer vacation, livid with the cousins, I was always excited, and the girls let me ride a bull, the bull was saddled, they called him Old Red, belief, and give, they were God fearing people; I had no notion of what they meant, God revealed to me now, God living in each living cell, morsel of food, we live another day.
This dancer, Anna from Russia, posed willing for an admiring crowed giving of form supreme. I have never seen a Prim ma Ballerina, and a younger man might have been quite smitten. In any other era, I would be considered ancient at age 58. I look with awe at younger people. My tapestry, my living past, recorded, the ancient legacy, individual, relinquished, as I move forward with less before me than is behind, and I look at youth as my ignorance, my lack of wisdom then but my wasted time, the knowledge that no man can condom an other's life.
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