(not a) day without poetry

Parts of a poem (through a few month's New Yorkers in the park this weekend, a sampling of thing torn out).

From Invisible String

"I remember my mother toward the end,
folding the tablecloth after dinner
so carefully
as if it were the flag
of a country that no longer existed
but once had ruled the world.
...
On this cloudy May day,
I keep thinking
maybe June is what I need
to make me happy.
...
Almost sixty:
from now on
even begonias are amazing."

- Jim Moore