Friday poem, and here's to Michael

It's strange when celebrities die. We think we know them, and maybe we do a bit - as far as it is possible to know anyone without stepping into their skins.

I'm sad for any losses, and especially sad for the unfulfilled, the parts where the light never shined. We never know what choices we ourselves would make if we'd lived someone else's life. So here's to Michael. And to Farrah, and to all the others.

Happy weekend x

*

Coming Home at Twilight in Late Summer

We turned into the drive,
and gravel flew up from the tires
like sparks from a fire. So much
to be done – the unpacking, the mail
and papers… the grass needed mowing…
We climbed stiffly out of the car.
The shut-off engine ticked as it cooled.

And then we noticed the pear tree,
the limbs so heavy with fruit
they nearly touched the ground.
We went out to the meadow; our steps
made black holes in the grass;
and we each took a pear,
and ate, and were grateful.

Jane Kenyon