October 31: "The Chairs That No One Sits In," All Hallows' Eve, Change

It is All Hallows' Eve.  Jack-o'-lanterns.  Candy.  Costumes.  Trick-or-treating.

In the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, All Hallows' Eve also means freezing rain, wind, and snow usually.  As I sit typing this blog post, it has just started snowing.  It's a little after 10 p.m., and I've spent a majority of my day thinking about how my life has changed.

Billy Collins meditates on empty chairs . . .

The Chairs That No One Sits In

by: Billy Collins

You see them on porches and on lawns
down by the lakeside,
usually arranged in pairs implying a couple

who might sit there and look out
at the water or the big shade trees.
The trouble is you never see anyone

sitting in these forlorn chairs
though at one time it must have seemed
a good place to stop and do nothing for a while.

Sometimes there is a little table
between the chairs where no one
is resting a glass or placing a book facedown.

It may not be any of my business,
but let us suppose one day
that everyone who placed those vacant chairs

on a veranda or a dock sat down in them
if only for the sake of remembering

what it was they thought deserved

to be viewed from two chairs,
side by side with a table in between.
The clouds are high and massive that day.

The woman looks up from her book.
The man takes a sip of his drink.
Then there is only the sound of their looking,

the lapping of lake water, and a call of one bird
then another, cries of joy or warning—
it passes the time to wonder which.

This poem, for me, drips with nostalgia and loss.  Two people used to sit in those chairs, perhaps an old man and woman.  They have been together so long that they no longer need words to communicate--reading each other's minds through looks or glances, body language.

This is the first Halloween in 24 years that my wife and I didn't go trick-or-treating with our kids.  Our daughter and son made their own plans, so we sort of experienced an empty nest night.  We handed out candy and walked down the street to visit our neighbor's haunted garage (an annual tradition on our street).  Then we drove to a good friend's house for hot chocolate, snacks, and conversation (another annual tradition for our family).

But there were empty chairs at our All Hallows' Eve table.  Don't get me wrong.  My wife and I enjoyed the evening, despite the shitty weather.  The trick-or-treaters were cute.  Chocolate was plentiful.  And we laughed a lot at our friend's house.  However, when we got in our car to drive home, my wife said, "It sure was strange not having the kids."

Yes, my wife and I are slowly transitioning into our days of porch sitting and world observing.  When I picked up my son tonight from his friend's house, he put his head back on the seat and fell asleep without so much as a "Happy Halloween!"

If you haven't noticed, I do not deal with change well.  This childless All Hallows' Eve was a huge change.  I missed the joy (and frozen misery) of ransacking neighborhoods for candy with my kids.  Missed painting their faces and forcing them to pose for pictures.

Saint Marty missed it all.  It's a good thing there's plenty of leftover chocolate.

October 30: "Poem on the Three Hundreth Anniversary of the Trinity School," Things We Celebrate, Wife's Birthday

There are things we celebrate every year--Halloween, Christmas, New Year's Eve, wedding anniversaries, birthdays.  These days can fill us with nostalgia, joy, sadness, hope, and/or despair.  They're place markers, reminding us to pause, reflect, give thanks, pray, eat cake, buy presents, dress up.  

Billy Collins celebrates an milestone . . .

Poem on the Three Hundreth Anniversary 

of the Trinity School

by: Billy Collins

When a man asked me to look back three hundred years
Over the hilly landscape of America,
I must have picked up the wrong pen,
The one that had no poem lurking in its vein of ink.

So I walked in circles for days like a blind horse
Harnessed to an oaken pole that turns a millstone,
A sight we might have seen so many years ago--
Barley being ground near a swift and silent millrace--

Which led to other sights of smoky battlefields,
The frames of houses, then a tall steeple by a thoroughfare,
Which I climbed and then could see even more,
A nation being built of logs and words, ideas, and wooden nails.

The greatest of my grandfathers was not visible,
And the house I live in was not a pasture yet,
Only a wooded hillside strewn with glacial rock,
Yet I could see Dutch men and women on an island without bridges.

And I saw winding through the scene a line of people,
Students it would seem from their satchels and jackets,
Three hundred of them, one for every school year
Walking single-file over the decades into the present.

I thought of the pages they had filled
With letters and numbers, the lifted bits of chalk,
The changing flag limp in the corner, the hand raised,
The learning eye brightening to a spark in the iris.

And then I heard their singing, all those voices
Joined in a fluid chorus, and all those years
Synchronized by the harmony of their anthem,
History now a single chord, and time its key and measure.

My wife celebrate a milestone today--another successful trip around the sun.  We have been together, as a couple, for about 34 years, married for 29.  That's a long time of togetherness.  Yet, she can still surprise me, make me laugh, drive me up a wall, remind me that I'm loved.  

We went out to eat tonight--a Cajun restaurant that is my wife's favorite.  Our kids were with us, and we sat at the table, eating, drinking, and laughing for almost two hours.  We didn't rush.  Everyone set aside their cell phones (a remarkable feat) and basked in the joy of just being together.  

It was a wonderful time, honoring my beautiful, courageous, hard-working wife.  We have seen each other at our bests and our worsts.  That's sort of what happens in a marriage.  Despite all kinds of challenges, we have endured as a couple.  And that is something else to celebrate.

Her name is Beth, and she is the love of Saint Marty's life.

October 29: "Watercoloring," Notice Beautiful Things, My Mother

As a poet, I sort of train my senses to notice beautiful things that other people might not even give a second glance/smell/taste/feel.  A rainbow slick of oil in a mud puddle.  The breath of autumn yellowing a maple tree.  The sound of waves from a lake I can't see.  The sweet smoke of burning pine branches.  

Most artists (whether poet, sculptor, photographer, dancer, or whatever) are close observers.  

Billy Collins tries his hand at painting . . . 

Watercoloring

by: Billy Collins

The sky began to tilt,

a shift of light toward the higher clouds,

so I seized my brush

and dipped my little cup in the stream,

but once I streaked the paper gray

with a hint of green,

water began to slide down the page,

rivulets looking for a river.

And again, I was too late--

then the sky made another turn,

this time as if to face a mirror

help in the outstretched arm of a god.

These last few days, I have been a little . . . distracted.  It's simply felt like my brain has been about five steps behind me since Saturday or Sunday.  Of course, last weekend was anything but normal, so I thought that may have something to do with it, too.

Then I realized tonight that yesterday was the anniversary of my mother's death.  October 28, 2021.  Three years.  It seems like forever ago, and it seems like just yesterday.  It's strange how I am so observant of a pile of leaves rattling around in the wind or a ginger candy sitting on my tongue, but I completely forget such an important moment in my life.

When I told this story to a friend this evening, she told me to celebrate my mother in a special way.  So here goes . . .

Her name was Betty, and she loved black walnut cake and coconut clusters.

She made the best tapioca pudding in the world, and her spaghetti sauce was the stuff of legend.

Reading was one of her favorite pastimes, and she taught me to love books.

One of her favorite movies was On Golden Pond.

I've never seen anyone pray harder than my mom.  She always had a rosary in her hand, her lips moving silently.

She worked as an advocate for special needs children, giving help and guidance to parents trying to navigate the educational system.

When my sister, Sally, was dying, my mother sat holding her hand, saying over and over, "It's okay.  Don't be afraid.  It's okay.  I love you.  Don't be afraid."

She believed I could do and be anything. 

Join Saint Marty in raising his glass to honor his mother tonight.  There aren't enough words in the universe to describe her.

October 28: "A Question About Birds," Puppy's Favorite Toy, Universal

When I throw my puppy's favorite toy, I see her joy when she snatches it out of the air.  When I sit on the couch in the living room at night, I hear my son's joy as he plays video games with his friends.  When I walked across campus to teach this morning, I passed two young men walking together, holding hands, joyful in each other's closeness and love.  When I ate a blueberry muffin my wife made this afternoon, I tasted joy.

Joy needs no translator.

Billy Collins goes birdwatching . . . 

A Question About Birds

by: Billy Collins

I am going to sit on a rock near some water 

or on a slope of grass 

under a high ceiling of white clouds, 

and I am going to stop talking 

so I can wander around in that spot 

the way John Audubon might have wandered 

through a forest of speckled sunlight, 

stopping now and then to lean 

against an elm, mop his brow, 

and listen to the songs of birds. 

Did he wonder, as I often do, 

how they regard the songs of other species? 

Would it be like listening to the Chinese 

merchants at an outdoor market? 

Or do all the birds perfectly understand one another? 

Or is that nervous chittering 

I often hear from the upper branches 

the sound of some tireless little translator?

Of course, the catalyst for joy is different for all creatures.  I can't feel joy over a fat earthworm, but a robin can.  I will sing Billy Joel's "Captain Jack" at the top of my lungs every time I hear it, but my son makes me turn off my music when I drop him off at school in the morning.  Some evenings, I watch rabbits graze joyfully on the grass in my backyard, the antennae of their ears twitching for danger.

Some afternoons, I walk down to Lake Superior to listen to waves as I eat my lunch.  That brings me joy.  Tonight, I listened to an arrow of geese flying overhead, and their joyful blats and honks sounded like a New Year's Eve party.  Even autumn leaves spinning in whirlwinds look like kids on a merry-go-round, dizzy with joy.

While Collins wonders if birdsongs need translation from one feathered chanteuse to another, I think joy is pretty universal--I recognize it everywhere.  That doesn't mean that I'm perpetually joyful.  However, it does mean that joy is as abundant as oxygen.  Take a deep breath, and you can taste it.

Saint Marty is now going to joyfully brush his teeth and watch a little Hocus Pocus on Disney+.

October 27: "Hell," Iambic Damnation, Clouds and Stars

I suppose we all have different versions of Hell, because each person harbors a different of punishment.  For example, I can't think of a better way to spend a couple hours than reading a collection of poetry.  For someone else, those 120 minutes would seem like an eternity of iambic damnation.

Billy Collins has his own ideas about damnation . . . 

Hell

by: Billy Collins

I have a feeling that it is much worse
than shopping for a mattress at a mall,

of greater duration without question,
and there is no random pitchforking here,
no licking flames to fear,
only this cavernous store with its maze of bedding.

Yet wandering past the jovial kings,
the more sensible queens,
and the cheerless singles
no scarlet sheet will ever cover,

I am thinking of a passage from the Inferno,
which I could fully bring to mind
and recite in English or even Italian

if the salesman who has been following us--
a crumpled pack of Newports
visible in the pocket of his short sleeve shirt--
would stop insisting for a moment
that we test this one, then this softer one,

which we do by lying down side by side,
arms rigid, figures on a tomb,
powerless to imagine what it would be like

to sleep or love this way
under the punishing rows of fluorescent lights,
which Dante might have included
had he been able to lie on his back between us here today.

Dante starts his descent into the Inferno with these lines:

Midway upon the journey of our life

I found myself within a forest dark,

For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

I am a little past midway on my journey of life, and I frequently feel lost within a forest dark.  Of course, the poet Virgil doesn't make house calls anymore, so I don't have a spirit guide to bring me back to the straight and narrow path.  I just have to keep keep stumbling along until I find my way.

With my wife's emergency surgery on Friday, I have found myself completely exhausted these last couple of days.  All I want to do is grab a pillow and blanket, put an old movie on Netflix, and go to sleep.  I have been able to take one or two naps, but not enough to feel completely restored.

If you're wondering what my version of Hell would look like, you probably can make some educated guesses.  Certainly, it involves sleep deprivation.  Adam Sandler movies 24/7.  Liver and onions for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  The Felon in Chief as President of the United States.  And a distinct lack of poetry (or only poetry written by the Felon in Chief).

I went for a walk this evening after I led an online poetry workshop.  The theme of the workshop was monsters, so we wrote about Bigfoot and Dracula and the Creature from the Black Lagoon.  On my stroll around the block afterward, I felt those monsters pacing me in the dark.  (It didn't help that my neighbors are fully Halloweened up with lights and inflatables and skeletons.)  

But the heavens above Saint Marty were gauzy with clouds and stars.  

October 26: "Horoscopes for the Dead," Libra, Closed Doors

I am a Libra.  I've always thought that reflected my need for balance and harmony in my life (although my life has rarely felt balanced or harmonious).  However, my zodiac sign does reflect one important character trait I have:  I examine problems or disagreements from all sides, trying to understand why people think the way they think.

Billy Collins is an Aries . . .

Horoscopes for the Dead

by: Billy Collins

Every morning since you disappeared for good,
I read about you in the daily paper
along with the box scores, the weather and all the bad news.

Some days I am reminded that today
will not be a wildly romantic time for you,
nor will you be challenged by educational goals,
nor will you need to be circumspect at the workplace.

Another day, I learn that you should not miss
an opportunity to travel and make new friends
though you never cared much about either.

I can’t imagine you ever facing a new problem
with a positive attitude, but you will definitely not
be doing that, or anything like that, on this weekday in March.
And the same goes for the fun
you might have gotten from group activities,
a likelihood attributed to everyone under your sign.

A dramatic rise in income may be a reason
to treat yourself, but that would apply
more to all the Pisces who are still alive,
still swimming up and down the stream of life
or suspended in a pool in the shade of an overhanging tree.

But you will be relieved to learn
that you no longer need to reflect carefully before acting,
nor do you have to think more of others,
and never again will creative work take a back seat
to the business responsibilities that you never really had.

And don’t worry today or any day
about problems caused by your unwillingness
to interact rationally with your many associates.
No more goals for you, no more romance,
no more money or children, jobs or important tasks,
but then again, you were never thus encumbered.

So leave it up to me now
to plan carefully for success and the wealth it may bring,
to value the dear ones close to my heart,
and to welcome any intellectual stimulation that comes my way
though that sounds like a lot to get done on a Tuesday.

I am better off closing the newspaper,
putting on the clothes I wore yesterday
(when I read that your financial prospects were looking up)
then pushing off on my copper-colored bicycle
and pedaling along the shore road by the bay.

And you stay just as you are,
lying there in your beautiful blue suit,
your hands crossed on your chest
like the wings of a bird who has flown
in its strange migration not north or south
but straight up from earth
and pierced the enormous circle of the zodiac.

My horoscope for today, according to Cleveland.com,  went something like this:  "Secrets get revealed. Rest and consider what’s ahead. Get productive behind closed doors. Organize and coordinate plans. Put things away. Prepare and plot."

Now, for the most part, I have stayed behind closed doors, except when I went to church this evening to play the pipe organ for Mass.  Other than that, I was at home, reading, resting, trying to convince my wife to take it easy, and watching bad reality TV.  Oh, and I cleaned the bathroom and went for a couple long walks with my puppy.

I'm not sure how productive I was.  In fact, I can think of nothing noteworthy I accomplished, aside from a short nap this afternoon.  I didn't organize and coordinate, put anything away, or prepare and plot.  (The last part of that horoscope sounds like coded instructions for Donald Trump supporters.)

So, I guess I was a really bad Libra today.  Or just an exhausted one.  Last night, I had dinner with my kids, and they carved some pumpkins.  I simply sat on the couch and observed, my mind finally relaxing after two days of adrenaline-fueled worry.  Yesterday, my Cleveland.com horoscope was:  "Group communications could get twisted. Things may not go as planned. It could get awkward. Keep an open mind and heart. Work it out."  

I was not in control of anything these last couple days.  Yet, it all worked out.  My wife is recovering.  My pumpkins are now jack-o'-lanterns.  My bathroom is lemon-scented Pine-Sol fresh.  And, pretty soon, this blog post will be published.  

Mercury may not be in retrograde, but Saint Marty is zodiacally pooped.

October 25: "Genesis," Surgery, Crazy Numbering

It has been a long couple days. The kind of days that make you reevaluate your life--its priorities and joys. I've had a lot of time to just sit and think, which is a luxury.

Billy Collins takes some time to think, too . . . 

Genesis

by: Billy Collins

It was late, of course,
just the two of us still at the table
working on a second bottle of wine

when you speculated that maybe Eve came first
and Adam began as a rib
that leaped out of her side one paradisal afternoon.

Could be, I remember saying,
because much was possible back then,
and I mentioned the talking snake
and the giraffes sticking their necks out of the ark,
their noses up in the pouring Old Testament rain.

I like a man with a flexible mind, you said then,
lifting your candle-lit glass to me
and I raised mine to you and began to wonder

what life would be like as one of your ribs--
to be with you all the time,
riding under your blouse and skin,
caged under the soft weight of your breasts,

your favorite rib, I am assuming,
if you ever bothered to stop and count them

which is just what I did later that night
after you had fallen asleep
and we were fitted tightly back to front,
your long legs against the length of mine,
my fingers doing the crazy numbering that comes of love.

Yes, my wife had her surgery.  At 10 a.m., they rolled her into the OR.  An hour or so later, she was in recovery.  I sat in the waiting area, writing, reading, thinking about the crazy numbering that comes of love, as Collins says.

My wife and I have been together 34 years.

We have been married 29 years.

During our time together, I earned a BA, and Master's Degree, and an MFA, and my wife earned a BS, for a total of four college degrees.  (If you throw my daughter's BA into the mix, that's five.)

Five years after we got married, our daughter was born in the year 2000.

Eight years later, our son was born.

Almost five years ago, we got our puppy--a mini-Aussie who has become our third baby.

During the time we've been together, I have lost one brother, two sisters, my mother, and my father.

Also during the time we've been together, I served as U.P. Poet Laureate for two two-year terms.

I've published three books during our married life, the most recent just one month ago.

We've seen six different Presidents of the United States during our time together and lived through one global pandemic.

Tonight, my wife has one less organ in her body, and I still have the one and only person I've truly loved.

No matter how you do the math, Saint Marty has been infinitely blessed.

October 24: "Gold," Everything Precious, Appendicitis

It is days like today that really remind me of what's truly precious in my life--not just the silver lining, but the gold lining of my daily existence.

Too often, I get swept up in the worries and stresses of my jobs or teaching or writing.  (Yes, writing can be stressful, but it's a stress I embrace wholeheartedly as delight.)  When this happens, I often find myself spiraling, like blood down the shower drain at the Bates Motel.  Everything precious goes right out the window.

Billy Collins on things that are precious . . . 

Gold

by: Billy Collins

I don’t want to make too much of this,
but because the bedroom faces east
across a lake here in Florida,

when the sun first rises
and reflects off the water,
the whole room is suffused with the kind
of golden light that might travel
the length of a passageway in a megalithic tomb
precisely at dawn on the summer solstice.

Again, I don’t want to exaggerate,
but it reminds me of a brand of light
that could illuminate the walls
of a hidden chamber full of treasure,
pearls and gold coins overflowing the silver platters.

I feel like comparing it to the fire
that Aphrodite lit in the human eye
so as to make it possible for us to perceive
the other three elements,

but the last thing I want to do
is risk losing your confidence
by appearing to lay it on too thick.

Let’s just say that the morning light here
would bring to anyone’s mind
the rings of light that Dante
deploys in the final cantos of the Paradiso
to convey the presence of God
while bringing The Divine Comedy
to a stunning climax and leave it at that.

My wife woke up this morning with severe abdominal pain.  She spent quite a bit of time in the bathroom because she thought it was due to something she ate.  Then she went back to bed.

When I picked her up after work, she couldn't even straighten her body to walk normally.  So, she went to a local walk-in clinic that promptly sent her to the ER.  After waiting for four hours, she got into an exam room, and then they did some lab work and CT scan.  Two hours after that, the doctor told us she was suffering from an acute appendicitis.  After another two hours, she was loaded into an ambulance and transferred to another hospital's ER, where she is waiting to see the surgeon in the morning.  

I just got home.  It's after 2 a.m.  I'm beat.  In a few hours, I'll have to drive my son to school and head to the hospital.

Tonight has been full of stress and worry.  The kind of experience that really does remind me of what's precious in my life.  Sure, my jobs are important.  Ditto teaching.  Writing poetry keeps me sane.  But, when my life is distilled to its elements, here is what remains:  my wife and kids and family.  They are my gold.

Saint Marty is a rich man.

October 23: "The Guest," Delight, My Wife's Hand

It doesn't feel like I accomplished a whole lot today.  I graded assignments.  Worked on scheduling upcoming programs at the library.  Read a bunch of poetry manuscripts.  Went for a few long walks.  That's it.

Poet Ross Gay once wrote, "Delight reminds us that there is still beauty in the world, no matter how dark it may seem."

Even on days when accomplishment is nonexistent, I can still find something that brings me delight.

Billy Collins delights in hospitality . . . 

The Guest

by: Billy Collins

I know that the reason you placed nine white tulips
in a glass vase with water
here in this room a few days ago

was not to mark the passage of time
as a fish would have if nailed by the tail
to the wall above the bed of a guest.

But early this morning I did notice
their lowered heads
in the gray light,

two of them even touching the glass
table top near the window,
the blossoms falling open

as they lost their grip on themselves,
and my suitcase only half unpacked by the door.

At the present moment in the United States, delight is in short supply.  Every day I come home, there's at least six or seven political advertisements in my mail.  Facebook is crowded daily with the latest goulash of stupidity uttered by former President Felon.  And I'm more frightened by my neighbor's political signs than by their Halloween decorations.  As Ross Gay says, the world seems pretty dark.

Yet, on my walk this evening, I found delight in the cool breeze against my cheeks.  And a fat gray squirrel stuffing acorns into his cheeks.  Sunlight blazing in an autumn maple.  A man vacuuming leaves off his lawn.  My wife's hand in mine.

Delight is easy.  You just have to train your antennae to notice it.  Collins notices the nine white tulips in the glass vase in his room.  I notice the fog of my breath in the dusky air.  Delight and delight.  After I'm done typing this post, I'm going to brush my teeth, read a few pages of Tommy Orange's novel Wandering Stars, and then maybe watch a movie on Netflix.  Delight upon delight upon delight.

But first, Saint Marty is going to finish off a bowl of tapioca pudding a friend made for him.  Deeee-light.

October 22: "Memento Mori," Ingmar Bergman, Charon

I really don't have to be prodded to contemplate death.  It's a subject I think about frequently.

When I was a kid, maybe about eight or nine, I wrote out my first plans for my funeral.  What music I wanted played.  Who would carry my coffin.  What food I wanted at my wake.  I used to think it was something everyone did--I mean, we all know we are going to die eventually.  Why not be prepared?

Billy Collins remembers he's a mayfly . . . 

Memento Mori

by: Billy Collins

It doesn’t take much to remind me
what a mayfly I am,
what a soap bubble floating over the children’s party.

Standing under the bones of a dinosaur
in a museum does the trick every time
or confronting in a vitrine a rock from the moon.

Even the Church of St. Anne will do,
a structure I just noticed in a magazine-
built in 1722 of sandstone and limestone in the city of Cork.

And the realization that no one
who ever breasted the waters of time
has figured out a way to avoid dying

always pulls me up by the reins and settles me down
by a roadside, grateful for the sweet weeds
and the mouthfuls of colorful wild flowers.

So many reminders of my mortality
here, there, and elsewhere, visible at every hour,
pretty much everything I can think of except you,

sign over the door of this bar in Cocoa Beach
proclaiming that it was established--
though established does not sound right--in 1996.

Now that I'm much older, I realize that young children generally don't plan out their memorial services.  Heck, people my current age don't do it either.  Death makes people feel uncomfortable.  I don't find the idea of my own end very warm and fuzzy.  But, for some reason, I've been thinking about it a lot today.

I don't think it's a premonition.  (I hope it's not.)  But, walking along Lake Superior a couple days ago, looking at the sailboats and the deep blue of the water, I found myself half-remembering something that happened to me when I was very young.

I must have been five or six.  My pediatrician or my parents discovered a tumor growing on the left side of my neck.  It wasn't just a little bump.  It was large as a golf ball.  Now, because of my age, I wasn't given all the medical possibilities.  The "C" word was never uttered in my presence.

I went to the hospital, was put under anesthesia, and the tumor was removed.  I'm sure it was also biopsied.  That's pretty standard when it comes to tumors.  My parents must have received good news, because, when I got home, everyone was happy to see me.  I got a ton of presents, and it felt like I'd just been born.  

So, death and I have been acquainted for quite a while.  

When I was around 13 years old, I ended up in a diabetic coma in the ICU.  (No tunnel of light or dead relatives to report.)  Since then, I've had blood sugars low enough to land me numerous times in ERs and ambulances.  I'm sort of like the guy from Bergman's The Seventh Seal, playing chees with Death.  Thus far, I've won each game.

I've updated my funeral plans several times.  Changed some of the songs.  Created a seating chart.  Chosen some Bible passages.  Added items to the menu at my wake.

Saint Marty isn't ready to pay Charon just yet.  However, he knows he's going to have a delicious funeral lunch when it does happen.

October 21: "Palermo," Last Gasp, Grace

We've been going through a warm spell in my neck of the Upper Peninsula.  Almost every day has been pushing the mid-70s, and the heavens have been eye-watering blue.  The sunrises and sunsets seem like Monet canvases, vibrant with oranges and pinks, almost too beautiful to be real.  The birds and squirrels seem confused by this last gasp of summer.

Billy Collins watches a singing squirrel . . .

Palermo

by: Billy Collins

It was foolish of us to leave our room. 

The empty plaza was shimmering. 

The clock looked ready to melt. 

The heat was a mallet striking a ball 

and sending it bouncing into the nettles of summer. 

Even the bees had knocked off for the day. 

The only thing moving besides us 

(and we had since stopped under an awning) 

was a squirrel who was darting this way and that 

as if he were having second thoughts 

about crossing the street, 

his head and tail twitching with indecision. 

You were looking in a shop window 

but I was watching the squirrel 

who now rose up on his hind legs, 

and after pausing to look in all directions, 

began to sing in a beautiful voice 

a melancholy aria about life and death, 

his forepaws clutched against his chest, 

his face full of longing and hope, 

as the sun beat down 

on the roofs and awnings of the city, 

and the earth continued to turn 

and hold in position the moon 

which would appear later that night 

as we sat in a cafe 

and I stood up on the table 

with the encouragement of the owner 

and sang for you and the others 

the song the squirrel had taught me how to sing.

I hosted a concert at the library tonight by some of my favorite musicians.  The band's name was Cloverland, and the music was bluegrass and folk.  Lots of fast banjo, guitar, and a slapping bass.  The harmonies were close and sweet.  By the end of the performance, I felt like I'd blossomed into joy.

I'm in no hurry to see snow flying.  I'll take these warm days as blessings, gifts of light and sun and clouds and colors and music.  Grace, if you will.

And Saint Marty needs all the grace he can get.

October 20: "Grave," Dead People, Sally

I know I'm not the only person who speaks to dead people.

For some reason these last few weeks, my sister, Sally, has been on my mind a lot.  I don't know why.  I've had dreams about her.  I wake up in the morning thinking about her.  At night, as I'm falling asleep, I can almost sense her close by.  A couple days ago, I whispered her name, told her how much I missed her.

Billy Collins visits his parents . . . 

Grave

by: Billy Collins

What do you think of my new glasses
I asked as I stood under a shade tree
before the joined grave of my parents,

and what followed was a long silence
that descended on the rows of the dead
and on the fields and the woods beyond,

one of the one hundred kinds of silence
according to the Chinese belief,
each one distinct from the others,

but the differences being so faint
that only a few special monks
were able to tell them all apart.

They make you look very scholarly,
I heard my mother say
once I lay down on the ground

and pressed an ear into the soft grass.
Then I rolled over and pressed
my other ear to the ground,

the ear my father likes to speak into,
but he would say nothing,
and I could not find a silence

among 100 Chinese silences
that would fit the one that he created
even though I was the one

who had just made up the business
on the 100 Chinese silences--
the Silence of the Night Boat

and the Silence of the Lotus,
cousin to the Silence of the Temple Bell
only deeper and softer, like petals at its farthest edges.

I haven't gone to visit my sister's grave, although I drive by the cemetery on a fairly frequent basis.  She's not really there.  I know that.  Aside from my close family and friends, not a whole lot of people I meet on a daily basis remember Sally, which is strange because she was such a huge presence when she was alive.

I suppose that's what it's like when most people die.  They sort of fade away to the point where you can't even remember what their voices sounded like.  Even their faces may become indistinct.  Pretty soon, the dearly departed are just . . . departed.  

The holiday season was my sister's favorite time of year.  She loved the decorations and movies and music and cookies.  And she spoiled people with presents all the time.  I've never met a more generous, giving person ever.  If someone she loved was in need, she helped them out.  A couple times during my married life, I found myself unable to pay my bills.  Sally recognized when I was struggling like this, and, quietly, without any expectation of acknowledgement, she would hand me an envelope of money or transfer funds into my checking account.

That's who Sally was.

I don't know why Sally has been so present in my mind recently.  She's been gone from my life almost ten years now, but I hope, if I'm ever financially stable enough, that I follow her example:  giving without receiving, loving deeply.  Always.

Saint Marty went for a walk this evening, just as the sun was setting.  Lots of purple and pink.  Sally would have loved it.

October 19: "Envoy," Writing a Book, Bigfoot

It's a strange thing to spend months or years writing a book and then send it out into the world.  In a lot of ways, it's like raising a child, teaching the child to behave properly--how to live a true, authentic life--and then watching said child walk out the front door, as you hope for the best (friends, love, job, fulfillment).

Billy Collins releases some poems into the wild . . . 

Envoy

by: Billy Collins

Go, little book,
out of this house and into the world.

carriage made of paper rolling toward town
bearing a single passenger
beyond the reach of this jittery pen
and far from the desk and the nosy gooseneck lamp.

It is time to decamp,
put on a jacket and venture outside,
time to be regarded by other eyes,
bound to be held in foreign hands.

So off you go, infants of the brain,
with a wave and some bits of fatherly advice:

stay out as late as you like,
don't bother to call or write,
and talk to as many strangers as you can.

I have no idea how successful my Bigfoot poems are going to be.  It's a book I would go out of my way to buy.  That's one of the reasons I wrote it--because I wanted to read a collection of poems about the big hairy guy.  It didn't exist, so I existed it.  

But not everybody is going to appreciate it.  I know that.  Collins knows that about his book, as well.  Of course, just like Collins, I hope my poems stay out late, don't call or write, and talk to as many strangers as they can.  That's what every writer hopes.

Of course, Bigfoot isn't really known to be all that social.  He might even be a little pissed at me for dragging him out into the open, as a matter of fact.  For such a long time, I gave him a place to hide--a cave filled with words.  I let friends and family only glimpse him sporadically, a flash of hairy ass and then nothing.  Just golden leaves in an autumn forest.

Bigfoot no longer lives rent-free with me.  He has to pull his own weight, so to speak.  And I am on the hunt for another obsession.  Disclaimer:  I have no interest in writing about the Loch Ness monster, yetis, ghosts, zombies, or serial killers.  

Maybe Saint Marty should write a collection of poems about a demented old man who wears makeup, has orange hair and an orange face, is a convicted felon, and runs for President of the United States.  Nope.  Nobody would believe it.

October 18: "The Future," Global Pandemic, Wet Dream

I've lived through several events that will probably be in history books for future generations:  The Challenger explosion.  September 11.  Columbine.  The burning of Notre Dame.  Barack Obama being elected President of the United States, twice.  The death of Queen Elizabeth II.

Who knows how people in the future will interpret these moments?  They may get it right, or they may fuck it up mightily.

Billy Collins contemplates being history . . . 

The Future

by: Billy Collins

When I finally arrive there—
And it will take many days and nights—
I would like to believe others will be waiting
and might even want to know how it was.

So I will reminisce about a particular sky
or a woman in a white bathrobe
or the time I visited a narrow strait
where a famous naval battle had taken place.

Then I will spread out on a table
a large map of my world
and explain to the people of the future
in their pale garments what it was like—

how mountains rose between the valleys
and this was called geography,
how boats loaded with cargo plied the rivers
and this was known as commerce,

how the people from this pink area
crossed over into this light-green area
and set fires and killed whoever they found
and this was called history—

and they will listen, mild-eyed and silent,
as more of them arrive to join the circle,
like ripples moving toward,
not away from, a stone tossed into a pond.

I don't think future generations will understand what it was like to live through the global pandemic.  Sure, there will be books and poems and movies and music and songs written about COVID-19.  They will all talk about mental health; makeshift morgues outside of hospitals; and politics.  However, unless you actually lived through it, you won't really get it.

This may sound strange, but I didn't mind the forced isolation.  In fact, I kind of enjoyed having to stay at home, away from people.  The long walks with my dog where everyone kept their distance.  Nobody knocking on my front door.  The holidays without 500 worship services to attend and five houses to visit.  Zoom church.  Zoom school.  Zoom business meetings.  It was an introvert's wet dream.

I'd never felt so close to my wife and kids.  Sure, it was forced bonding time, but it was still wonderful.  Family game nights and movie nights.  Curbside pickup at Walmart.  Knowing exactly where my kids were at all times.  And all the newest movies on streaming services.

Yes, bad shit happened.  Hundreds of thousands of people died because of President Felon.  People politicized science.  Anti-maskers marched on the state capital in Lansing, schemed to kidnap and kill Governor Whitmer.  Toilet paper just vanished from store shelves.  

During most of the pandemic, my wife and I cleaned and disinfected two churches.  We never ran into anyone.  It was kind of lovely to see the candles burning in the darkness of an empty sanctuary.  Yes, I know that religion is a communal thing.  We're all one, big, happy Christian family.  But there are some family members you just don't want to run into, even at reunions or Thanksgivings or birthdays.

Saint Marty isn't saying he misses the pandemic.  However, he does have a ton of really cool facemasks that he will never have reason to wear again.

October 17: "Oh, My God!", Fuck!, Public Reading

The third commandment:  "You shall not take the Lord's name in vain."

My father broke this commandment often.  One of his favorite invocations in times of surprise, frustration, and anger:  "Jeee-sus Christ!"

I don't generally throw God's name into my profanity.  I'm a little more old-fashioned, I guess.  Hence, if a curse passes my lips, it's just plain old "Fuck!" or "Shit!"  On rare occasions, I may say "goddammit!"  However, I prefer one-syllable oaths--they have more power and impact.  A fist to the face ("Piss!") instead of a series of blows ("Motherfucker!").  

Billy Collins meditates on invocations . . . 

Oh, My God!

by: Martin Achatz

Not only in church

and night by their bedsides

do young girls pray these days.

Wherever they go,

prayer is woven into their talk

like a bright thread of awe.

Even at the pedestrian mall

outbursts of praise

spring unbidden from their glossy lips.

Tonight I did a public reading for the first time from my new book of poems.  I was one of five poets on the roster, and I went second.

I shared four poems from the book and then five more short poems from my new manuscript.  The establishment that hosted the reading is a popular hangout for college-age students, so I didn't quite know what to expect in the way of audience.  Plus, my Bigfoot poems are strange.  I don't think people know whether to laugh or cry or both when they hear them.

But, I read, and the entire place remained pretty quiet through the entire 20 minutes I was allotted.  I'd like to say I had them eating out of the palm of my hand (I hate that metaphor, by the way), but I'm not sure that was the case.  Maybe they were just being polite, or they were busy getting drunk on ale and mead and kombucha.  Whatever the reason, they were damn silent.

I sold one book and got two free drinks.  Ate some pizza and cookies.  Visited with friends.  It was a fucking good night.

Saint Marty doesn't have anything else to swear about.

October 16: "Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant," To Do, Felon in Chief

Every morning, when I get to my library office, I make a list of things I want to accomplish.  And every night, when I get home, I'm disappointed at how little I've actually done.  It's an exercise in supreme disappointment.  

However, today, all seven of my "to do" items have been "to done."  Writing this blog post is the last task, and then I can relax.  Maybe eat a piece of leftover chicken or some cheesecake.

Billy Collins enjoys some sweet and sour pork . . . 

Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant

by: Billy Collins

I am glad I resisted the temptation,
if it was a temptation when I was young,
to write a poem about an old man
eating alone at a corner table in a Chinese restaurant.

I would have gotten it all wrong
thinking: the poor bastard, not a friend in the world
and with only a book for a companion.
He'll probably pay the bill out of a change purse.

So glad I waited all these decades
to record how hot and sour the hot and sour
soup is here at Chang's this afternoon
and how cold the Chinese beer in a frosted glass.

And my book—José Saramago's Blindness
as it turns out—is so absorbing that I look up
from its escalating horrors only
when I am stunned by one of his gleaming sentences.

And I should mention the light
that falls through the big windows this time of day
italicizing everything it touches—
the plates and teapots, the immaculate tablecloths,

as well as the soft brown hair of the waitress
in the white blouse and short black skirt,
the one who is smiling now as she bears a cup of rice
and shredded beef with garlic to my favorite table in the corner.

Collins has become the old man eating alone in a Chinese restaurant that he imagined when he was young.  Of course, the reality is very different from the fantasy.  For young Collins, the old man was desperately friendless, with only the companionship of a book.  Old Collins knows different.  He knows the pleasure of eating hot and sour soup alone with just a good book for company.  

Expectations are rarely accurate.  For example, all the MAGA Republicans believe their lives are going to be so much better if the Felon in Chief is elected President of the United States again.  In reality, the only person's life that will improve is the Felon in Chief's.  Because he's a narcissist, among other things.

Tomorrow, I will not finish my to-do list.  I say this with absolute certainty.  At the end of the day, I will feel like a total failure.  Keep in mind, I'm the one that sets unrealistic goals for myself.  Perhaps I need to shoot a little lower with my tasks.  Rather than "Write a poem about eating alone in a Chinese restaurant," I could just "Brush my teeth" or "Tie my shoelaces."

Tonight, however, I celebrated my completed list with a walk.  The almost full moon hanging above me, dogs barking in the distance.  I even walked by the Trump house (a neighbor who's been flying Trump flags since 2016) and didn't feel the urge to shit on his lawn.

Yes, Saint Marty is feeling THAT good about himself and the world.  

October 15: "This Little Piggy Went to Market," Snow, Mysteries

I woke this morning to snow coming down in my neck of the woods.  That's right.  S. N. O. W.  

It didn't last long or stick to the ground.  Yet, driving to work, my headlight beams were confused with a sleety not-quite-rain.  Of course, I know it's coming.  I've lived in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan almost my entire life.  I can remember only one Halloween that didn't require boots and a winter jacket.

Yet, I was still unprepared for this little taste of winter.  If I were younger, I would have been excited.  Since I'm not younger, I used some very colorful language this morning, and it wasn't a nursery rhyme. 

Billy Collins takes on Mother Goose . . . 

This Little Piggy Went to Market

by: Billy Collins

is the usual thing to say when you begin
pulling on the toes of a small child,
and I have never had a problem with that.
I could easily picture the piggy with his basket
and his trotters kicking up the dust on an imaginary road.

What always stopped me in my tracks was
the middle toe--this little piggy ate roast beef.
I mean I enjoy a roast beef sandwich
with lettuce and tomato and a dollop of horseradish,
but I cannot see a pig ordering that in a delicatessen.

I am probably being too literal-minded here--
I am even wondering why it's called "horseradish."
I should just go along with the beautiful nonsense
of the nursery, float downstream on its waters.
After all, Little Jack Horner speaks to me deeply.

I don't want to be the one to ruin the children's party
by asking unnecessary questions about Puss in Boots
or, again, the implications of a pig eating beef.
By the way, I am completely down with going
"Wee wee wee" all the way home,
having done that many times and knowing exactly how it feels.

Some things just don't make sense.  Billy Collins has issues with "This Little Piggy."  He doesn't understand the third little piggy eating roast beef.  I've always thought the poem is about pigs being fattened up for slaughter.  Maybe it is.  I don't know.  

But not understanding something doesn't preclude you from enjoying it.  I don't understand how a combustion engine works, but I still drive a car.  I don't totally get the ending of 2001:  A Space Odyssey, but I still teach the movie.  I don't understand Trump supporters, but . . . Okay, there's nothing to enjoy about Trump supporters.

I went for a walk with my wife when I got home this evening.  It was cold--the kind of cold where you can taste winter in the air.  An almost full moon was in the sky, and the trees on my street were every shade of orange and yellow.  I can't say we went "Wee wee wee" all the way home, but we did watch the sun set and stars begin to wink on one-by-one.

I didn't study physics in college.  Or astronomy.  But I still love auroras and meteor showers and comets and eclipses.  Walking hand-in-hand with my wife down the street, with the moon rising above us, is a wonderful mystery of love and gravity and attraction.  Two bodies drawn into each other's orbits.

Oh, and Saint Marty thinks the moon was pretty cool, too.

October 14: "Divorce," Married, I'm Sorry

Twenty-nine years ago today, my wife and I were married.

The day before was beautiful, warm and full of autumn colors.  I drove from Kalamazoo to the Upper Peninsula, convoying with one of my best friends from graduate school.  We stopped a few times along the way to take pictures.

The day of the wedding was a completely different story.  Cold, with occasional rain and (if I remember correctly) some sleet.  We posed for pictures near Lake Superior after the ceremony and nearly froze.  But we were surrounded by friends and family the whole day, and the future seemed endlessly bright.

Billy Collins sets the table . . . 

Divorce

by: Billy Collins

Once, two spoons in bed,

now tined forks

across a granite table

and the knives they have hired.

Admittedly, this isn't the best Billy Collins poem to write about on my wedding anniversary.  It's full of sharp edges and points.  More battleground than anything else.  But it's honest in its depiction of two people--once joined happily in spoonful love--separated by distance and a subtle violence.

Now, my marriage has had its share of rocky patches.  Two people sharing their lives for almost three decades are bound to face strains and disagreements.  We are both flawed human beings, and those flaws can create huge fissures and rifts in any relationship.  Yet, that very humanness is what has held my wife and I together all these years.

Because, you see, we both know that mistakes have been made and will be made.  We've both fucked up at times.  Yet, we love each other enough not to turn into tined forks across a granite table.  We've forgiven and will continue to forgive.  In any long-term relationship, there are two phrases that are very important:  "I love you" and "I'm sorry."  Both convey the same sense of hope.  There's that famous catchphrase from the movie Love Story:  "Love means never having to say you're sorry."  I will offer this revision:  "Love means always having to say you're sorry."  

Apologies aren't admissions of guilt.  They are pleas for love and understanding.  

I bought my wife cheesecake for dinner tonight.  We went for a walk with our puppy, and we've spent a quiet evening, reading and working.  She will soon head off to bed, and I will finish writing this blog post.  We still are paired spoons.

That's Saint Marty's dinner table.

October 13: "The Great American Poem," Driving Downpour, Marquette Art Awards

It rained pretty much all day.  A hard, driving downpour.  It was the kind of rain that makes you not want to get out of bed or brush your teeth or do anything productive.  Except maybe read a good book.  Something with a dog or star-crossed lovers.

I did not not do any of that.  (Read that sentence over a few times.  It makes sense.)  I played two church services.  Took my dog for a muddy walk then gave her a bath.  Went grocery shopping.  Attended the 2024 Marquette Art Awards.  Got a little drunk.

If I were a Stephen King character, I'd probably be on about page 50 and a zombie would crash through my living room window to eat my brains about now.  But I'm not a protagonist in a horror novel.  I'm a poet who had really busy Sunday.

Billy Collins isn't a character in a novel or a novelist, either . . . 

The Great American Poem

by: Billy Collins

If this were a novel,

it would begin with a character,
a man alone on a southbound train
or a young girl on a swing by a farmhouse.

And as the pages turned, you would be told
that it was morning or the dead of night,
and I, the narrator, would describe
for you the miscellaneous clouds over the farmhouse

and what the man was wearing on the train
right down to his red tartan scarf,
and the hat he tossed onto the rack above his head,
as well as the cows sliding past his window.

Eventually—one can only read so fast—
you would learn either that the train was bearing
the man back to the place of his birth
or that he was headed into the vast unknown,

and you might just tolerate all of this
as you waited patiently for shots to ring out
in a ravine where the man was hiding
or for a tall, raven-haired woman to appear in a doorway.

But this is a poem, not a novel,
and the only characters here are you and I,
alone in an imaginary room
which will disappear after a few more lines,

leaving us no time to point guns at one another
or toss all our clothes into a roaring fireplace.
I ask you: who needs the man on the train
and who cares what his black valise contains?

We have something better than all this turbulence
lurching toward some ruinous conclusion.
I mean the sound that we will hear
as soon as I stop writing and put down this pen.

I once heard someone compare it
to the sound of crickets in a field of wheat
or, more faintly, just the wind
over that field stirring things that we will never see.

I really enjoy being around creatives.  Dancers.  Educators.  Painters.  Jewelry makers.  Poets.  That's my scene.  As a poet, I can vouch for the fact that artists don't really get acknowledged or celebrated very much.  That's why I love attending the Marquette Art Awards.  It's a time to reward great people and organizations for just being really damn cool.

This year, a poet friend received the award for Writer of the Year.  I couldn't have been more thrilled for her.  Generally, poets don't receive a whole lot of recognition, unless your last name happens to be Collins or Angelou.  The last time the Nobel Prize in Literature was given to a poet was in 2020, when Louise Glück won.  Before that, you'd have to go back to 2011 (Tomas Tranströmer), and then to 1996 (Wislawa Szymborska).  Like I said, poets are the redheaded stepchildren on the literary world.

So this evening's ceremony was a really great ending to the weekend.  Saint Marty got to hang out with some of his best friends, drink, and eat cheese and crackers.  It was like being at a Diddy party without the sex, drugs, rape, or pedophilia.  

October 12: "A Dog on His Master," Dinner, Anniversary

Chill day.

My son is staying the night at a friend's house.  Dropped him off this morning.  Then I practiced music at a few churches.  Went for a couple long walks with my wife and our puppy.  Played for the 4 p.m. Mass at my home church.  Went out to dinner with my wife to celebrate our 29th anniversary.

Juno, our fur baby, enjoys chill days when she can lounge on the couch with me or my wife, bark at squirrels or cars, and generally be spoiled.

Billy Collins talks dogs and walks and aging . . .

A Dog on His Master

by: Billy Collins

As young as I look,
I am growing older faster than he,
seven to one
is the ratio they tend to say.

Whatever the number,
I will pass him one day
and take the lead
the way I do on our walks in the woods.

And if this ever manages
to cross his mind,
it would be the sweetest
shadow I have ever cast on snow or grass.

On Monday, my wife and I will be married 29 years.  That's a long time, more so in dog years.  I'm not gonna lie--there have been some very rocky years in those nearly three decades.  Yet, our marriage has weathered those storms.

I'm not going to get all sentimental here.  (I sort of did that in last night's post.)  But I do want to say that it seems like just yesterday when we stood in front of our family and friends, slipped those rings on our fingers, and kissed.

Time is so strange.  When you're a kid, summer vacation lasts three lifetimes.  As a teenager, you can't wait to turn 21 to buy alcohol and get shitfaced legally.  Once you hit that milestone, things seem to speed up.  Thirty years go by, and you find yourself sitting on the couch, petting your dog, and looking at your wife--your beautiful, funny wife--who has been with you through the best of times and the worst of times.  (Do NOT turn that statement into something sexual--I know you were thinking it.)

Nobody knows how long they have on this planet.  It could be seven years or seventy years.  I'm hoping to see my daughter become a doctor.  My son to become a poet.  (Okay, he says he's into cybersecurity, but a guy can hope.)

And Saint Marty's hoping one day to watch the sun set in Hawaii again with his beautiful bride.

October 11: "The Fish," Elizabeth Bishop, Beatrice

One of my favorite poems of all time is Elizabeth Bishop's "The Fish."  I remember the first time I read it when I was in middle school, I think.  It blew me away.  I had no idea that you could write poems about catching a fish on a lake.

Bishop paints the scene so vividly that you can almost smell the marshy water and see the fish gilling the air in her boat.  And I love the moment, near the end of the poem, where the speaker and the fish stare into each other's eyes before she lets him go.

Billy Collins sort of conjures up Elizabeth Bishop in today's poem . . . 

The Fish

by: Billy Collins

As soon as the elderly waiter
placed before me the fish I had ordered,
it began to stare up at me
with its one flat, iridescent eye.

I feel sorry for you, it seemed to say,
eating alone in this awful restaurant
bathed in such unkindly light
and surrounded by these dreadful murals of Sicily.

And I feel sorry for you, too—
yanked from the sea and now lying dead
next to some boiled potatoes in Pittsburgh—
I said back to the fish as I raised my fork.

And thus my dinner in an unfamiliar city
with its rivers and lighted bridges
was graced not only with chilled wine
and lemon slices but with compassion and sorrow

even after the waiter removed my plate
with the head of the fish still staring
and the barrel vault of its delicate bones
terribly exposed, save for a shroud of parsley.

I haven't done much fishing in my life, and I can't remember the last time I held a fishing pole in my hands.  It was never one of my favorite things--standing at the edge of a lake or river, waiting for something scaled to bite my hook.  I'm not saying I hated the experience.  It just wasn't for me.

But then again, a lot of people wouldn't think typing a blog post or scribbling in a journal is fun.  I do.  Stringing words together on a page relaxes me and allows me to feel a little in control of my life.  (This may be a false sense of security, but it works for me.  It relaxes me.)

It's Friday night.  I had dinner with both my kids this evening.  We ate pizza and played some video games.  When I got home, I took my puppy for a long walk.  I just stepped outside to check out the aurora situation.  Didn't see much except stars and the moon.  The air smelled like autumn--leaf mold and coming frost.

I could write a poem about tonight, like Bishop wrote about catching the fish or Collins about eating fish in Pittsburgh.  Mine would be about a three-meat pizza and Trivial Pursuit, my kids loving on each other through insult, and my wife, my beautiful wife of almost 29 years, on the couch beside me, drowning happily in family.  Then the stars appear, like they do for Dante at the end of the Inferno and Purgatorio and Paradiso, always shining with holy hope.

Saint Marty give thanks for the Beatrice of his life.