First Known When Lost

We are surrounded by noise.  My definition of noise is catholic:  the noise of which I speak is both audible and visible.  Any electronic sc...

Is the moon different in autumn?  I have no hard evidence, only inklings.  I am one of those who is lucky enough to have fond childhood memo...

Autumn sometimes provokes in me an urge to simplify, to pare things down.  Perhaps this is due to the sense of impending loss.  But "im...

I ought to be better versed in the names of flowers.  I do know that the dahlias are still flourishing at this time of year.  But I am in no...

When not bemoaning the state of their love life, Elizabethan poets were wont to be worrying another sore tooth:  the transience of our time ...

September has a high wistfulness quotient.  Summer is hanging on, but your emotions tell you otherwise.  Things seem vaguely unsettling -- l...

September and -- strange to say -- it is 90 degrees and clear in the Land of Mist and Moss.  It seems an odd time to be thinking of wolves. ...

Patrick Kavanagh's " My Room ," which appeared in my previous post, closes with the following stanza: My room is a musty a...

I don't believe that living in a garret leads to wisdom or contentment.  That being said, I do harbor a daydream of living in a monk...

Sometimes the fact that a certain person is simply there  in the world -- as a presence, an example, an inspiration -- is a matter of great ...