our room sidles / the Burren in Ireland’s West / crenelated lap of white / limestone gleams open / to the night’s full moon.

We were young and foolish and unafraid to leap into what came to be called The Rib Wars of ’83.

When I was quite young, in the late 1950’s, I remember pleading with my father as we were setting off on one of our Sunday drives: “Dad, let’s get lost.”

April begins a fool and ends a sage. She tags the tails of March, the cruelest month with high hopes and fierce winds.

reach of day

A poem after Seamus Heaney.