after a morning’s absent-minded scramble through the bookshelves i
finally found billy collins at the bottom of a basket of sweaters i know
i should put away. it is april fool’s; the argyle vest might as well be a
suit of motley with bells on. an everlasting sameness seems to be my lot;
three more months gone by and what have i done? the question is of
no new date, yet here i am pondering again the answer that eludes my fancy:
how does that frail thing with feathers still sing the tune without the words?
