Archive
03/21/10 - (3)
Hanging My Hat
From the time I was a knee-high-to-a-grasshopper kid, Conceivably for many more years before then, I'd heard that folksy American old saw "Anywhere I hang my hat is home" And never really given it a passing thought, if that.
But lately, in my aging intellect's peregrinations, I believe I see the essential wisdom From which that modest apothegm engenders, Catch the bittersweet drift That straight-shoots its shaft through the apple's core.
In a rented cabin, for ten days, On the shore of a frozen lake in northern Wisconsin, I've spent the most joyous isolation I've ever known, Not wanting this Sunday to pull up my tent stakes, Send me home, to a home with no hatrack.
03/21/10 - (3)
|
|||
|
|||
