To an Athlete Dying Young

For my friend, Steve: Well, two weeks and $400 later I am once again feeling much better; how clear everything looks after a good night's sleep and minimal pain. I think stress and allergies are what are going to kill us, at least most of us. Maybe we should step up our efforts in med research to cure them. It has been a trying couple of weeks, peppered with good things like our fantastically successful launch for The Legend of Tugfest, some great antiquing, blissful weather, good friends, and time to spend with family. There were lucky days where I found a dollar in tne middle of nowhere, or heard from an old friend, and devastating days, where a friend chose to end his life, though he was very young, and another decided not to speak to me because his misguided professional ambitions and personal greed overtook his feelings for me and his friends. Oh well. Some of us will grow up. It is also a much smaller world than we think, and I discover this everyday. We are all related in some way, both good and bad. Our local grocery is now carrying black petunias. Black flowers are "in," and I plan to plant a few more pots. The moles and vholes seem to be leaving us alone, though I pretty much came face to face with a raccon the other night. Am still looking for new ideas for water sustainability and concerving our oceans and rivers. Would love to hear of any books or materials. I'm also into nature writers these days, and would be happy to take book recommendations. I'm am involved once again in the local bookfairs and will try to sell books at several bookstores. My goal is go get my name out there as a writer/poet, and I am getting some place and am very greatful to 918Studio, Rivertown Creative and MWWC. In some ways, I probably owe them my life and well-being. Happy planting, and here is a poem in honor of my late friend S, a marathoner, and of his sister-in-law, who as it turns out, I've known for quite some time.

To an Athlete Dying Young The time you won your town the race We chaired you through the market-place; Man and boy stood cheering by, And home we brought you shoulder-high. To-day, the road all runners come, Shoulder-high we bring you home, And set you at your threshold down, Townsman of a stiller town. Smart lad, to slip betimes away From fields where glory does not stay And early though the laurel grows It withers quicker than the rose. Eyes the shady night has shut Cannot see the record cut, And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears: Now you will not swell the rout Of lads that wore their honours out, Runners whom renown outran And the name died before the man. So set, before its echoes fade, The fleet foot on the sill of shade, And hold to the low lintel up The still-defended challenge-cup. And round that early-laurelled head Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, And find unwithered on its curls The garland briefer than a girl's. Alfred Edward Housman