[lit-ideas] Re: Threefer Sunday
- From: David Ritchie <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Sun, 20 Sep 2009 12:02:55 -0700
One
Today I trussed up the pair of vines,
one merlot, one cab, which constitute Chateau Ritchie,
bound them in fourteen by fourteen feet of netting.
It was more than an hour's worth of finicky and dirty work, with
sundry bits of string,
a boy scout effort, of which I am not particularly proud.
It's absurd, but I'm told this is what you do to prevent a repeat of
last year's melancholy
losses to birds.
Under "achievements," therefore, this week list "throwing up a nearly-
invisible shield."
I have protected a cupful of juice without resort to missiles.
And that cup can be made into wine, possibly as good as that which
you find on the bottom shelf of your local store.
Woo-hoo.
Six hundred and thirty five months along, nearing fifty three, I have
become
the most determined two-year-old,
focused, with my tongue out,
ready to stamp and crush.
I want my recolt.
Two
When we remember, we stare off.
When we forget, we cast about.
In between, we look to stuff,
and move on.
Three
Get this straight:
the reflex I indulge currently,
(if indulgence equates with a failure to discipline)
is worrying about you,
but your half is to try not to worry greatly.
This gives you magnificence, a fragile aura of omnipotence,
particularly when you laugh.
Your task is to take from all our support
what strengths you find therein,
and like folk heading towards safety in an emergency,
cast off all else.
Should I be lucky enough--by dint of long straw drawn,
or fortune's genetic piece--to succeed in becoming old or frail or
otherwise an object
of color
(unnecessary whiteness comes to mind),
you of course have permission to re-thing this whole deal,
remodel it bow to stern,
as your ladyships please.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
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