Life With Horace

poetry & essays

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High summer in an old house
Occupied by an army of visiting bugs
Brings dreams of parachutes
For those I must evict
The one too many ones
The wrong kind of spider
A waving scuttler scooped up
Elbowed legs and angled hairy parts 
Run the mercy packet to the door
Release the tissue wrapped passenger
And watch it float down to sanctuary
On a bed of violet leaves 


A very old house. In the winter we have critters. Summer brings the bugs The right kind of spiders? Thin bodied long-legged spiders that look like Charlotte. 



In song, music puts
its hands around my heart.
My words think tears
are a puddle to splash
through shoeless.
Color often stops my breath,
and I am held its willing
prisoner. A sudden memory
might need release.
Any of these call up joy
or tears, and I don’t mind.
When the signal comes
they might glide to me
in a waltz, or whirl up
on the skirts
of a wild mazurka.
Better yet, ride in
on the smoothness
of an alto sax.