Send to Kindle

The air is thick with cicadas, tonight.
A memory of long ago Tennessee summers.

A short walk along dark streets with a grateful dog, the trees green in the lamplight.
An Irishman like me, the little dog finds thrilling adventure at every turn.
Would that I never forget his simple habit of joy, which is as Irish as the sod.
But so also melancholy, we must never forget, is as Irish as the sea.
We are a conflicted lot, except for the terriers among us.

Joy and melancholy alike, these were the pleasures of the day.

I heard from two friends in the afternoon.  What a pleasant thing that is.
One was a laughing voice from across the miles.
The other came with a simple request I was happy to oblige.
It is good to help and to be helped.
In that way we remember others and are remembered.

More news came today.  They are certain the book will sell, sell, sell!
The author is less certain by far.
He is a lucky man to be alive, and that is quite lucky enough.

I spent the evening thinking of Mr. Poe and his Raven.  Now there was an author, you say.
I shall memorize that poem before I am nevermore and deliver it with grave solemnity each year at Christmas to terrified grandchildren.  That is my pledge.  In the mean there is so much to do, and so little time for it, yet hurrying will not lift me or Mr. Poe an inch above the earth.

Now I should forget it all and chase my dreams into sleep, but sleep is a faster runner.
Perhaps I shall sit awhile with a good book and catch him by surprise.
Greatly I hoped, less I attempted, lesser still did I achieve this day.
But there is solace in a good woman, and a warm home.
I had a filling meal of  a thick sauce and a thin cabernet, and that is enough for any man.

These were the pleasures of the day.