with apologies to ee cummings

I'm feeling morose and ill at ease. I can't tell whether it's all that is happening at the Albany Bulb, whether it is, that over the last two days, Oscar doesn't seem to want to run, or even walk up the few steps to my front door, or whether it is that my best friend has been out of town for more than a week and I miss her, or that my intimate life seems uncomfortably jagged right now or whether the political mood I sense wafting around is more like the anticipation of a Roman Coliseum confrontation than the election process of a civilized land. I have started blog after blog and not completed any. So I thought today - in my disjointed state, I would remind myself of simple truth -

maggy and jilly and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles, and

jilly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles: and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea

ee cummings

and though ee wrote milly and I wrote jilly
the thought is the same just a different name: and

the beach is the place where we see
no people to block the view to me

and clearly i am no poet, but
it is my blog so I'm allowed to do it.