Big Girl

Rosie the Riveter,
a job I haven't had to do yet.

April showers caused a slight delay
in moving furniture from one
(upstairs) apartment to a smaller
(ground level) one across town,
but we were ready for a little break,
at least I was, even when
a woman who stopped by to help
a little (very little, just like her)
said, "You guys have guns!"
(The kind for heavy lifting,
not for shooting.)
Years at Nature's Way, then
pitching hay up on the farm,
countless bags of feed, hauling fence,
take a break from gardening
to shovel out the shit,
cutting, stacking firewood,
free labor for what was once
the hardest working man upon the planet.
Convenient that he never was
the type to prize a manicure
or tiny shape or constant gourmet
dishes from the little woman's
kitchen. He says he's old but
then our daughter needs to move (again)
and something inside rallies till
the job is done, polite enough to say
I made a difference. I guess
The Big Girl's got some muscles still.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Fashionably Late

www.craigboyce.com

A squirrel stopped by this morning, scratching
on the window of my office, distracting me
from paying bills and checking mail presumably
on his way to work. But even though I tapped hello
in hopes he'd stay awhile and chat, he mumbled
some excuse about a Monday meeting
he was late for, more than fashionably seemed
to be the gist although I couldn't hear exactly
through the pane of glass that's extra thick
because we live in Florida and must be vigilant
in case a hurricane stops by another day.





(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Axl Waits

Drawing from
www.deborahgoodman.com

Axl waits, dark ocean he's afloat
in growing smaller every day. Elbows,
knees seem to be everywhere,
his shoulders cramping as he camps there
one more month, just slightly less,
until he's able to escape into the light.
Joining those he's met through muffled
voices heretofore, he'll be the darling one,
a prince, the much anticipated newborn
loved already, room prepared with clothes
and downy blankets.We'll squeal with joy
and count all of his fingers and his toes,
breathing prayers of thanks for
one more grandson, brother, nephew, son.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

My nephew Ben and his wife Christie will have Axl on May 23, unless Axl has other plans!

Horizontal

Vertically challenged, but just for the moment.
Not short, short-changed, or feeling so.
I'd rather be hanging out horizontally, prone
beneath fresh sheets, flipping pages in a book
while an ocean breeze intrudes from the open
slider, flips my hair so slightly against your arm
tucked beneath me that it tickles.
Thundering surf close but distant too,
I'd stretch long and cat-like, dozing, book
closing without so much as a goodbye
or fare-thee-well, catnap before I'm required
to stand on my own two feet, stand up and be
counted, stand my ground. I can't stand this, don't
understand. I want to lay down instead,
down-filled pillow the color of clouds
and just as soft, beneath our heads.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Weekend Haiku

A busy weekend
possessing potential for
laughter, sweat, and tears.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013




We moved our daughter into an apartment a few months ago and now it is to do all over again. The up side will be a baby shower - families are always in flux, aren't they?

Porter's Hold on Me

Ferrol Sams' trilogy
about Porter
begins when he is a child,
taking him through
college, med school,
and the military.

Of all the leading men in movies meant
to catch a lustful lady's eye,
of all the heroes of adventures written
to evoke fair female reader's sigh,
the favored fellow sitting at the top of my long list
is not the one I think you'd likely guess.
Among the many, manly, handsome misters
there is only one who holds my heart, I must confess.
Forget Rhett Butler, Bond, Lord Jim,
Sherlock Holmes, Heathcliff? Not him.
Nor Austen's Darcy, Alcott's Laurie.
Tony isn't best (from West Side Story).
I could envision being in romantic clinch
with Atticus, that noble and nice-looking Mr. Finch.
When I was just a little girl, Almanzo Wilder seemed ideal,
moreso because I knew his comely character was real,
but doctor/author Ferrol Sams left this reader without quarter
when he put his pen to paper and created dear sweet Porter.
Porter Osborne, Jr. will be always and forever
in my heart for being funny, yes, but also kind and clever.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

With it being just my sister and me, the story of Porter was quite an education into the mind of little boys. And big boys. Sams is a gifted storyteller, and I often give his books as gifts.

Peace through Art

Beauty for beauty's sake,

colored tiles of every hue

arranged in patterns so intricate

that senses are thrown off-kilter.

Woven scenes of nature, history,

lovingly, painstakingly crafted,

adorning buildings, walls, the

very floor beneath one's feet.

The culture is a world away,

beliefs contrary to our own,

attitudes abhorrent to our thinking

customs counter to what we may 

hold dear, but if only for the beauty,

we are blessed that they are here.

If we could but cast aside the other

matters, sit upon a rug together

sipping Turkish coffee in tiny

crystal cups discussing color,

tessellation, triumph of design

instead of all destructive acts

throughout respective pasts,

we might more likely rise and

walk away with something closer

to an understanding, something 

civilized and beautiful and clear.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

On a trip to Turkey years ago, I was so impressed with the intricate Islamic artwork in places where one wouldn't expect to find artwork at all...spots of beauty just for the sake of having spots of beauty. It is easy to get caught up in animosity toward things, countries, people groups, when we equate them with hatred and violence, but there are always positive things as well, if we'll take the time to look.

Still

Rooted to the earth, trees dance
the watusi in the warm coastal wind
but far above, the air is still, clouds
painted with a wide brush on blue ceiling
tease overhead, earth holding its breath,
waiting for something magnificent,
for something no one else can even see
except, perhaps, a bird in flight.








(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Power of Smile

The great Louis Armstrong
recorded "When You're
Smiling" three times,
the first in 1929.
Click the link below
to hear it.

When young, our children could be teased into a smile
by matching somber frowns, pronouncing with a musical,
exaggerated tone, "You're smiiiiiiiling...you're smiiiiiiiling."
Never failing to succeed with at least a hint of upward curve
to lips, and then the battle was well won.
They could not pout, once smile replaced the grimace
on their faces, could not keep up angry mood
(at least until the next time). When genuine,
the smile is one of God's most powerful weapons.
When false, no one will be fooled. The tie between
the mouth and eyes, some light there when our heart
is full of joy, contagious proclamation that it's grand
to be alive, and loved.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


I dare you not to smile while listening to this Louis Armstrong classic:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bOH_mioL3TU

Blue

Favorite hue
evoking water, Holly's eyes,
nothingbutblueskiesdoIsee,
Renee's bottles on my shelves,
others I've collected. Regal color,
sapphire, blue flame, heart's afire.
bluebirdssingingasong,
True blue, thin blue line,
Blue Ridge Parkway,
bluejeanbabyqueen
prettiestgirlI'veeverseen,
Singing the blues can be
a beautiful thing
but feeling blue...
that's something else entirely.
Blueohsolonesomeforyou.
Blue washes over,
tears flow, deep breaths.
Rock on.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Day Off

Downtown, a man whose hair
and face matched that of his dog,
seen earlier today and now again.
Drizzle and chill cannot dampen
spirit of the day. Tonight, discussion
of music and electric basses with
bearded member of the two-piece band
whose jazz and easy listening
helped baked brie and best steak ever
eaten go down nicely.
Picking up some fun things for
the grandkids, trying not to think
of the drive back, it's been grand.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Antiques

Antiques draw me to another time and place,

richness of polished wood maintained

with love and care, built when things were

meant to last for generations. Vase that once 

graced someone else's table, heard conversations

about latest gossip, comments on fresh

flowers it held captive. Most antiques are

much too costly, but create a pleasant day for me

to browse and let imagination drift back

to when each thing was new, and life

was good, the future holding me a distant

dream. I have dreams as well, with few

things of quality that generation in

a hundred years might treasure, but that's okay.

Furniture is not the key to happiness,

but who is sitting on it, whose clothes,

scented with their essence, are lovingly

placed within the drawers.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

FCAT Rhyme

Doggerel's a term of some disdain
unlike haiku, sonnet, or cinquain,
attempted humor or by accident,
poems containing limited literary content.
A doggerel concerning this week's FCATs
might point to the good possibility that that's
one problem with today's lack of education
but tomorrow's end will see much jubilation.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


Today and tomorrow, Florida students complete FCAT tests. An enormous amount of time and energy is spent preparing for a test that might be better spent on actual teaching. 

Drama-free Digs

Suddenly, while thinking of a bed,
it came to her. A bed, of all things.
Not her own, not theirs,
but one in which she'd never slept -
on sale, according to the person who
had told her of the purchase.
All at once, no longer wondered she
about this place that seemed so pleasant.
It had no history, that was it! No arguments
or makeup sex, neither fond nor bitter
memories, just being there was free of drama;
this alone was worth a smile. The thought
came brightly as if backlit by the sun behind it,
dancing on the water. Although the concept
might be borrowed from the Helprin novel
she laid down beside the bathtub, stepping out
and drying off, the revelation was at once,
forever, only hers, as nakedly apparent
as her form reflected in the mirror.
The figure there returned her grin
as twins compared the lightness
of their refreshing and respective moods.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


A woman I know is living in a new place, and ponders why, although it is not what she ever thought she would enjoy, she does. Sometimes we love a home because of the memories, sometimes in spite of them, but she discovered that it was the very absence of memories she was finding delightful and unique.

Disturbing Revelation

A drawing from the anonymous author
of this blog:
http://lieshurtmysanity.wordpress.com/

Unsettling, to come face to face
with ghost of monster that one thought
one knew, discover that the most
atrocious actions (the way that one believed)
were dismayingly,
discomfortingly
not.
Now there's grieving in disturbing revelation
of this nature, no doubt necessary to the process
of new closure, more to deal with, reeling
with revulsion, vision clear but thirty years too late.
Had one but spoken out about the evil things one saw
before one's eyes and mouth were craftily sewn
shut, if one had spoken up enough
when one still had the chance,
would it have made a difference
to the future,
tragic
circumstance?
One cannot know. But oh, one wishes,
with regret and wistfulness, that journey to the past
was possible, that one could change
some things once shrouded, now unmasked,
if not for one's own reasons,
then for those of other innocent who's spent
so many nights in
quiet
agony.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


Have you ever known something was wrong but didn't say anything, and then after awhile you stopped thinking it was wrong? Did you ever wonder what happened because you were silent, and what might have been different? It was this line of thinking that prompted the poem.

Tax Day, 2013

There's nothing sure but death and taxes,
it's been said, but on this day both
reared their heads in Boston, Mass.
Runners wanting nothing more than
cheering crowds as they drew near
the finish line they'd worked so hard
to reach, heard something much
more ominous. They sought the wind
upon their faces, racing with adrenaline
so close to meeting goal, never
knowing as they made their way down
Boylston Street that it would
soon be bloodied. What cowards
chose this time and place to
show untimely animosity, will surely
become well acquainted with
the consequences of their deed.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

A Responsive Reading for the Self-Absorbed

I read somewhere that
the end result of
selfishness is
loneliness. I think
this is true.

No one understands my pain and suffering.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I would never let someone I love go through this.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
Nothing ever goes right for me, no matter what I do.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I hate it here; we should go back there. 
Poor, poor pitiful me.
No one cares. I have no one. I have nothing to live for.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
Things would be better if you would just do what I want.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
Why won't you give me one more chance?
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I'm sorry I'm not strong like you are.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I want to just give up and die.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
Why did I even think you would help?
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I've tried to do the right thing and now look at my life.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
That's easy for you to say.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
Thanks for nothing.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I wouldn't be in this mess if you would help me.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
You just don't get it. You never have. You never will.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
Why won't you just do what I ask?
Poor, poor pitiful me.
You have no idea what I have to go through.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
My life would be better if you hadn't ruined everything.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
It's all your fault.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I guess it's all my fault. I'm worthless. You'd be better off without me.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I'm so tired of people telling me I'm the one with the problem.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I think you want me to fail.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
No matter what I do, it's not good enough for you.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
My friends don't understand why you're treating me like this.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I'm sorry I'm not perfect like everyone else.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
Wow. I never thought you'd turn your back on me.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
How can you punish me for being honest?
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I have to lie because you wouldn't help me otherwise.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I have to lie because you don't believe me.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I stole because you left it right there.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I stole because you wouldn't help me.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
It's your job to make me happy.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
You're the reason I'm such a mess.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I can't stand living with you.
Poor, poor pitiful me.

I don't understand why I'm alone.
I don't understand why I'm alone.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Warren Zevon wrote a rock song entitled "Poor, Poor Pitiful Me" which I had never heard, to my knowledge. I was telling my sister about the poem I was going to post today and she said, "I think that's a song." I googled it and yes, it is. Linda Ronstadt and Terri Clark are among many who recorded it as well. One night I was thinking of some of the self-absorbed drama I have heard or heard of in my life, and decided that, like liturgical churches, those folks could have a litany of their own. To hear them talk, they have nothing else, so...

Confidence

from howtogetconfidence.org

Confidence attracts, no question
but it's not enough. Beneath the fluff
there needs to beat a heart that's
absolutely focused on the object of pursuit.
Perhaps the winning grin or graceful face
is better off alone until such time has shown
ability to put another person first,
with passion not for seeing only his or her
needs met but also the desire to stir
those of another and fulfil them.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Unyoked

There's no warranty at work in this stifling
situation. No fine print that, squinting,
one might find allowing for return
of all investments in relationship
that's gone so sour and headed south, taken turn
for worse, the worse for wear. It's not
that I no longer care, but wish there was
a legal loophole through which certain
snarky person might be pitched.
Same person by the way, would likely say
the same of me, as stubborn, I refuse
to let myself be used again. So I say "No"
to the request, provoking pleas, demands,
manipulations, invocations, begging, thievery
of all that's honest and forthright. I'm done.
Forgiveness? Done. Prayer? Done,
and that, I'll keep on doing but this
bending over backward to enable one
so selfish, tunnel-visioned, is no longer
a decision I will make. It's freeing, really,
recommended to those struggling with the tendency
all have to some degree to live a life unhealthy,
smothered by another, unrelenting yoke
of codependency.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Sanity Check

Tomorrow I will vent to Brent.
Today, it's been my sister
and some others who have listened
without offering advice, because
sometimes there is nothing left to say.
After all, it's not my fight or wisdom
that's in question. Not my choices,
just my phone that's getting texted
and about to drive me crazy.
(Right here would be a good place
to insert a long frustrated sigh).
Oh. My.
Tomorrow I will vent to Brent,
whose paid to hear me out and sit
there looking interested enough,
He'll reassure me that detachment
may be painful, but still preferable
to alternatives that I tried too long.
Call it coping mechanism,
meeting with a counselor,
a sanity check's the next thing
on my calendar. I'll gladly make the drive,
somewhat less so, pay the man
who seems to understand that everything
does not depend on me, not a matter of my being
strong or weak or loving those who think
I've let them down. Occasionally frowning,
he hears my secret fears, invites me share
my secret joys and  lets me cry and cuss
without a fuss because I've disappointed
tidy standards of propriety.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Brent may not appreciate this, come to think of it.  I'll ask him. Maybe he'll appreciate the free advertising and give me a discount. On the other hand, he might charge me for using his name without permission.

Pre-dawn Jog

The people sleeping in their beds still do not hear
me jogging past their little nests of concrete,
do not see the slightly lumpy woman sweating
in the coolness of the morning air, would not
care what motivates, inspires the perspiration
and the effort. And that's okay. How could they
know that underneath the clothing and the 50-something
skin beats a heart (beating rather quickly
with exertion) that hasn't lost desire for passion,
wonderment, for heat? For life? If surprise
of joy is only a mirage, at least I'll get some mileage
from the hope and if I die without my dreams
fulfilled completely, then I die in better shape
than I would be if I had stayed
in bed another hour.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

First Graders

Most television shows have been on air
for longer than they've been alive, so small,
but hearing outbursts one might well declare
they're experts on such things as classroom protocol,
at least about what other kids should do. "Well, he
is not supposed to talk now!" little girl cries out, surprised
when I remind her that she had to talk to tell me!
I warn them early on that I will be annoyed with tries
to keep me on a certain schedule, sentence started
"Mrs. G, we always do it this way!" They can trust me,
following the plans the school imparted
from their regular teacher who is sick (she must be!)
or simply getting married, depending on which child
is asked. It's mostly bluff, there's not much bite
behind my bark. With tiny ones, the mood is mild.
It's easy to discern the ones who didn't sleep last night,
which have the issues in the room, but if I'd missed them
that one there is quick to fill me in. "He's always like
that," whispering low, discreetly pointing to him.
Barely able to prevent my eyes from rolling, I remind this pretty tyke,
for perhaps the twenty-second time to please sit down,
and she complies with oddly understanding frown.





(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

The Lamp

Well-crafted, handsome lamp that graced
the desk so long she had to stop to calculate,
but almost overnight, it failed. The light
would flicker on, then off, sporadic times
that caught her in the midst of work
and were, therefore, annoying.
Change of bulb, a temporary answer only,
thorough cleaning had the same result.
New switch? New pull? New cord, but no.
So many hours the lamp had freely offered up
its helpful light while letters, bills, her work
had been productively completed, she
was loathe to relegate it to the trash. Rashly,
she presented it at the counter for repair,
prepared to bite the bullet on the cost.
The man instead just shook his head and
moved to chuck it in the bin but then he
noticed that she stared in horror at the thought.
"You want it back? Won't ever work," but
gratefully, she took it back and set it on a shelf
above her latest purchase, shiny lamp with
such a clever shade it made the whole room
elegant. She grinned each time she turned it on,
so brilliant was its function and design.
In time, the day would come when she could let
the old one go, but not just yet. It met a need
for now, a bookend for some tall and heavy
volumes that she'd previously laid upon
their sides. Sitting now instead propped up
against the tired and failing lamp gave just
the reason to keep her old, once faithful friend
around, but oh, she thought with some regret,
if she had known the difference in her life
that having this new lamp would make, she might,
just might, have shopped for one a little sooner.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


Sometimes we're hesitant to move on to new things, so wrapped up we can become in the old. But sometimes change is better. Not always, but sometimes. I was reminded of something a friend of mine said years ago: "Sometimes you need to change the lightbulb. Sometimes you need to throw out the lamp." My mind just followed her words down that path awhile, and this is what I ended up with.

In the Moment

Best advice I've ever heard
aside from "Love your neighbor as yourself"
came courtesy of Deborah J and worked its way
into my heart, popping off my mental shelf
in little spurts of inspiration every day.
Stay in the moment, Debbie said,
to actors on a stage but like most all
such wisdom this has broader application.
At this moment, I am caught up on my bills
and prayers, no dreadful thoughts
for several seconds, committed no great
sins against Big Ten Commandments for
even longer. Limited by lack of temptations,
for this moment I am Right, capital R,
as all good Southern girls were raised to be.
There's comfort in that, knowing I will fall,
and fall apart, no doubt any time,
but right this moment? I am fine.
There's no one cursing me by text or phone,
I haven't let a person down. Supper's in
the oven, wine is waiting in the glass,
tomorrow's possibilities lay like sparkling
specks on troubled waters, but for just
this moment, I'm content, and dry,
upon the shore. Tribulations, stresses
that press in relentlessly are kept at bay
and in this moment I am blessed.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Beneath the Sky and Tree

A patch of grass beneath the spread 

Photo borrowed from
http://www.ju90.co.uk/blog/visit7.htm

of leafy arms had charm enough for just 

the one to sit and rest a spell, 

melt into earth as breeze and shade

of trees and lake held back the midday heat.

But still, as pleasant as it was for one,

the one would always rather while away

such moments as not one alone but one of two

forms underneath the branches, lost not

in quiet contemplation, wrapped instead

in concentration on the other's sleepy laugh,

arms and legs there intertwined.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

 

Vienna Haiku Times Two

Vienna sausage
childhood delicacy that
still pleases palate.

But please don't tell me
what these weinies are made of.
Might spoil appetite.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

The Hope of Seeing

The Chinese symbol for love
looks, to me, like someone reaching
out as well as pulling in, of looking
heavenward while pointing to the earth.
It looks happy, as is fitting.

No poetry today, no verse or rhyme,
no easy flow of words from pen
or tongue could possibly or adequately
convey the way her heart sped up
at just the hope of seeing him again.
It made no sense, the quickening of breath,
warmth spreading everywhere
until, she blushed a little at the thought,
surely everyone could tell, just by
the way she seemed to smile from eyes
to mouth and back without
an easy explanation.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


Just feeling a little romantic. I come by it naturally: my mother is a romantic, as is my sister. There are different kinds of love, all of which are valid and necessary to optimum human existence, but I personally think that romantic love, when coupled with other kinds - friendship, selflessness, a desire for God's best for another - can bring together the best of what love can be. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Angry Birds Rhyme

When we went to the store 

to buy bathroom decor

I was surprised 

when my grandson was certain

that instead of the fish,

the thing that he wished

was to have Angry Birds 

on the curtain.

I'm not "up" on the game,

nor know them by name,

but these unhappy 

wing'd cartoon creatures

shared my outlook today,

decidedly grey,

their frowns mirrored 

in my own sour features.

Poet Watkins has said

that such rhyme I should dread,

but I say, it must be cathartic,

since now I can smile

and no longer taste bile,

my mood now improved from lethargic.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

At the Bus Stop

The sister's holding Robert Frost,
which catches my attention. How often
do you find fourth graders reading
anything these days, not to mention something
of that calibre? "Whose woods these are,
I think I know," I quote, and help her find
the page. Waiting for the bus beneath
third quarter moon, we talk of poems and school
and why our grandson lives with us.
"I write poetry," I say, and nod my
head his way. "Sometimes about him,"
which pleases all three children, bonded
by innate desire for recognition not just
as someone in the crowd, but someone special.
"Would you write about me?" the brother asks.
not shy at all but sensing that I need more
information on the subject quickly adds
that he likes racecars and mermaids, his tone
daring me to find this odd, perplexing combination
guaranteed, perhaps on purpose, clever calculation
to insure my fascination and continued interest.
Moon and sun are both on site to watch
them board their smelly yellow transport
as I walk back to the apartment, thinking
on the kind of boy who doesn't mind a bit
his standing out as just a little different.
His sister, too, now that I think about it,
wondering who she has around to talk
about the deep things Frost inspires.
Observing them today, I think her brother
may turn out to be the sort who, in later years,
will be best friend and ally, sounding board
for dreams and schemes and mermaids
taking breaks from all that water,
working pit crew in Daytona.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

10,000-Plus, As Of Today

10,000 views is quite a lot, for someone such as I,
or is it someone such as me? I always have to look it up, and having done so, thank you God for Google, now I'll stick with I, and stick with writing poems each day, with that much of an audience. I alone can see that one or two offerings account for greater part of traffic, and must disclose that it's due to art that I've attached, not so much poetic excellence, but whatever, I am grateful. Some days
I'm more inspired, some days it's just a discipline,
but then again, being somewhat wild in certain layers of myself,
some structure (and what's more, the motivation
of commitment to a daily poem) is just the thing I need.
Or one thing that I need, among so many others, some
of which I'll find this week, in fact and fantasy,
and some for which I'll have to wait awhile,
smiling as I contemplate those items of concern.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013