Well, my love is like a rose that newly glows in June, April, May, and all months with or without the letter R. You didn’t spare the horses to speed your poem in time for Thanksgiving. It’s timely and cute, careening close to gentle parody. I’m struggling to find a workable example of what I mean among living Eratosphere people without scraping the curb. Maybe Ann Drysdale, who writes so well, has done something one of us could echo with an air kiss. A houseboat image in another person’s poem; I wouldn’t dare try that yet because I’m unwilling to act like I’m up to her level. That’s the idea though.
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