"There's not much doubt in any of our minds that no complete idea springs fully formed from our brow,
needing only a handshake and a signature on the contract to send it off into the world to make twenty-five billion dollars.
The germ of the idea grows slowly..." - Walt Kelly

Monday, April 8, 2013

Eternal, more or less

Day Eight: Write an ottava rima.

In snow there is no pleasure but the past,
cold memory and wasted tones of truth.
To see beyond the winter's hold at last
takes only the warm hope that comes with youth.
The shadow of antiquity is vast -
uncompromising and, at best, uncouth.
But visions of the future hold a hope:
a rescue and a way back up the slope.

Playing on Spotify at this very moment:
Good Old War, Coney Island

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