At last things have slowed to a walking pace, and today I found time to open Michael's package and leaf into Furusato
. Which means I will very soon surprise him with the check in the mail for his book, snugly wrapped inside a classics meeting handout of mine oozing with fresh processed wabi-sabi
It's an attractive book, with many poems I have only flipped among. I just stopped on "Trochees Are the Perfect Fix" (p.79), whose seventh and eighth lines are "Trochees are the poet's perfect fix -- stone / Fences that provide a perfect high," and ends with "a touch of frost." Landscape, weather, puns, and certain ilk turn up there too.
PS: It's Michael's book, not mine. Iona copy now though.