The Philosopher in Florida
By C. Dale Young
Midsummer lies on this town
like a plague: locusts now replaced
by humidity, the bloodied Nile
now an algae-covered rivulet
struggling to find its terminus.
Our choice is a simple one:
to leave or to remain, to render
the Spanish moss a memory
or to pull it from trees, repeatedly.
And this must be what the young
philosopher felt, the pull of a dialectic so basic
the mind refuses, normally,
to take much notice of it.
Outside, beyond a palm-tree fence,
a flock of ibis mounts the air,
our concerns ignored
by their quick white wings.
Feathered flashes reflected in water,
the bending necks of the cattails:
the landscape feels nothing---
it repeats itself with or without us.
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The date and the end of cicada season made this poem seem quite relevant today. Happy Litha/Solstice/Midsummer or Midwinter depending on where in the world you live, and enjoy the longest day of the year, those in my hemisphere.
In news from last night, I watched the King Arthur special on the History Channel, but didn't really learn much from it, which just tells me I have read far, far too many books, both fiction and non-fiction, on the subject. I can always listen to Patrick Stewart, though. I can't run that best Friend meme, however; apparently I have too many Friends. This is probably just as well, as the idea of "best friend" growing up generally led to cliquishness, threats of abandonment and unhappiness. Today I MUST work, as I pretty much did not have a moment to do so all weekend. Also must attempt to stimulate young minds and keep them off GameCube until fencing this evening. I need to thank
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