Thanks, John! Hooray, I've just finished working for the day, at about 1am. I'm glad you have a couple of highlights here. Yes, leeches have their uses in healthcare too. The first poem I wrote once out of hospital described the maggot therapy. For a while I looked like I'd been in a shark attack, with a chunk of flesh missing from my left lower leg, but everything healed over time. I was lucky that the infection didn't reach the bone, otherwise they'd have amputated, oops, boops.
Yes, Mother's Day in the US. My mother does well in March, as it's her birthday as well as her special day, cue lots of celebrations. That's a lovely tradition for Mothering Sunday.
I'd like to see the
La Mer-inspired poem; I assume you mean Debussy's piece? Ravel composed
Ma mère l'oye, I expect you know, which is very touching. It's the final thing on my CD of his piano music.
Writing to Ravel remains on my List; for now, here's one I wrote almost a year ago, which you might recognise. It started in Non-Met, but I couldn't resist rhythm-ming it up at the end. I think that's because writing the poem cheered me up a bit, or something. One for the Lyrics file
After her fall
The magnolia stood on the sprawling front lawn
blooming purple and pink in the Spring,
an exuberant fanfare as fresh as the dawn;
she would gaze at the petals and sing.
But this Spring all the brassiness pounds in her head
and she wishes for something to soothe:
not the daffodil yells nor the tulips, too red,
nor the grass, so impossibly smooth.
In the shadow of hedge, in a modest array,
she finds players in delicate hue
and they nod as they chime, with the softest of sway,
a serene little movement in blue.
(^v^) <-- bluebird