October 27, 2026: "Watching Television," Hummingbird, "Nostalgia"

One of the classes I teach at the university is called Good Books.  Basically, it’s introduction to literature and literary interpretation, and every person who teaches Good Books in the English Department  approaches it differently.  For several years now, I’ve used the course as a vehicle to talk about mental illness.  So, I include books like An Unquiet Mind by Kay Jamison and The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, among others.  

Yesterday morning, in our discussion of Matt Haig’s The Midnight Library, we talked about regrets—decisions we’ve made in our lives that we look back on with a sense of loss or nostalgia.  It could be something huge—giving up on the dream of becoming a ballerina—or something small—having Corn Flakes for breakfast instead of Lucky Charms.  (By the way, given that choice, always go with Lucky Charms.)

Marie Howe writes about an argument she regrets . . .  

Watching Television

by: Marie Howe

I didn't want to look at the huge white egg the mother spider dragged

along behind her, attached to her abdomen, held off the ground,

bigger than her own head--

and inside it:  hundreds of baby spiders feeding off the nest,

and, in what seemed like the next minute,

spinning their own webs quickly and crazily,

bumping into each other's and breaking them, then mending

and moving over, and soon they got it right:

each in his and her own circle and running around it.

And then they slept,

each in the center of a glistening thing:  a red dot in ether.

Last night the moon was as big as a house at the end of the street,

a white frame house, and rising,

and I thought of a room it was shining in, right then,

a room I might live in and can't imagine yet.

And this morning, I thought of a place on the ocean where no one is,

no boat, no fish jumping,

just sunlight gleaming on the water, humps of water that hardly break.

I have argued bitterly with the man I love, and for two days

we haven't spoken.

We argued about one thing, but really it was another.

I keep finding myself by the front windows looking out at the street

and the walk that leads to the front door of this building,

white, unbroken by footprints.

Anything I've ever tried to keep by force I've lost.

Howe’s last line is killer.  It pretty much ties together the first part of the poem (about the spiders) with the second part of the poem (about the argument with her love).  It’s all about trying to hold on to something that simply won’t or can’t be held on to.  The hatchling spiders are learning to spin their webs to trap food, and the speaker in the poem is lamenting the absence of her estranged partner.  

No matter how hard we try, we can’t force time to pause or stop, no matter how wonderful the moment.  Like anything in this universe, happiness is ephemeral.  We may spend days weaving intricate webs to trap our joy, but joy has wings and a strong will.  It will pull and kick and flap until it rips itself free of our silky bonds.

The best we can do is to enjoy what we have in the moment.  Tell the person sharing your bed and life that you love them.  Spend an extra few seconds on the dance floor, eyes closed, swaying and bouncing to the music.  Read that gorgeous poem by Mary Oliver one more time.  Have another ice cream sandwich.  Bliss out.

Howe’s right.  You can’t keep something by force.  A hummingbird is beautiful because it’s wild in its frantic love of summer nectar.  Wings humming, it appears and dances from blossom to blossom, slurping up sweetness, and then flits away and disappears.  Capturing that hummingbird won’t capture its ecstasy.  

We’re approaching the holiday season, with all its emphasis on family and togetherness.  If you’re anything like me, you will spend some time in the next three months thinking about the Thanksgivings and Christmases from your past.  And if you’re anything like me, you will have many empty chairs at the turkey table and around the twinkling tree this year.  That’s just reality.  People drift in and out of your life.  Move away.  Die.

I’m a person who can get mired down in regrets and nostalgia—that pining for individuals and experiences that are simply gone forever.  I will never have another Christmas with my parents and all my siblings.  In fact, I haven’t had one of those for about 30 years. Those Thanksgiving mornings where my wife, children, and I watched the Macy’s parade together on television are long gone.  Both my kids are adults now, and my daughter lives downstate with her significant other.  Life, for better or worse, has moved on.

I’m trying to avoid getting all tangled up in my sticky web of regrets.  It’s tough.  As I get older, my list of regrets grows and grows.  But I have a lot to celebrate in my present life:  my beautiful wife of 32 years; my brilliant and funny daughter and son; and my loyal friends who remind me (sometimes on a daily basis) that the world is a better place with me in it.

That’s pretty sweet nectar for this ol’ hummingbird.

Saint Marty wrote this poem a few days ago . . . 

Nostalgia

by: Martin Achatz

is that feeling you get when
the first maple leaf blazes into
sunrise overnight, and you know
grass, panes, ponds will soon
frost then rime then freeze over.
And you aren’t ready to let go
of the drill of insects on a day so green
you’re breathing chlorophyll,
aren’t ready for the erasure of the coming
months—God painting his canvas
with thick, white, cold gesso,
the way Picasso painted over a bent
penitent, a nursing mother, something
bovine in a field, a woman’s
face—all ghosts now—before
he settled on that old, blue man
strumming his guitar. And it’s the blue
sound that old man’s guitar makes
in the blue air, like a mourning
dove’s cry: coo-ah, coo, coo, coo.

What do you do with all this
longing? You could look at old
pictures in yearbooks, marvel
at how young everyone is, anxious
for the future to arrive on the noon
bus from Chicago or Milwaukee. Or
you could put on a vinyl, turn
down the lights, sway to Prince’s
“Purple Rain” the way you did
with your crush at junior prom
when you finally worked up the guts
to ask her to dance. Or you could
follow some forgotten railroad tracks,
like Wil Wheaton and River Phoenix
in Stand By Me, searching for that friend
who disappeared years ago. Listen.
That train whistle in the distance
is calling his name in the night.

October 23, 2026: “Late Morning,” So Much Love, “You’ll never be broke”

Greetings, Faithful Disciples!

Last weekend,  I visited my daughter and her significant other downstate in Mount Pleasant. My wife, son, and I headed across the Mackinac Bridge on Friday and came back Sunday afternoon. It was a trip about five weeks in the planning, and I cherished every moment of it.

Marie Howe reflects on cherished times with her loved ones . . .

Late Morning

by: Marie Howe

I was still in my white nightgown and James had drawn me down

to sit on his lap, and I was looking over his shoulder through the hall

into the living room, and he was looking over my shoulder, into the trees

through the open window, I imagine,

and we sat like that for a few minutes, without saying much of anything,

my cheek pressed lightly

against his cheek, and my brother John was dead.

Suddenly close and distinct, it seemed finished, as if time were a room

I could gaze clear across—four years since I’d lifted his hand from

the sheets on his bed and cooled it in my hand.

A light breeze through the open window, James’s warm cheek,

a brightness in the windy trees as I remember, crumbs and dishes still

on the table, and a small glass bottle of milk and an open jar of

raspberry jam.

Such a tender, quiet moment that Howe describes—full of great love and sorrow, simultaneously.  You really can’t have one without the other.  The morning of her brother’s death, Howe sits on James’s lap, pressing her face to his stubbled cheek.  It’s a moment anchored by small, domestic details—the bottle of milk and open container of raspberry jam and the light breeze—as the poet tries to endure the daily normalcy of life after the loss of a life.  

I understand the grief and relief Howe is describing.  I loved my sister, Sally, deeply.  For close to 20 years, I worked with/for her at an outpatient surgery center.  We spent eight, nine, ten hours a day together for almost two decades.  When Sally died, my profound love for her morphed into profound sorrow.  Like Howe, I found myself missing the small intimacies we shared—the Dove chocolates stashed in her desk drawer or her ever-present cans of Diet Coke.  Tiny, ridiculous things.

Last weekend, I reveled in tiny and ridiculous things with the people I love most in this world—my wife, son, daughter, and daughter’s significant other.  We went out to eat, played games, watched a movie.  Against my better judgement, we did and escape room, an experience designed to create anxiety and panic.  However, I was surrounded by really smart people, so we managed to solve the puzzles in almost record time.

All weekend long, I was so happy and relaxed.  Following my kids into a pizza place to order dinner, I felt my heart opening up like the Grinch’s at the end of How the Grinch Stole Christmas—as if I couldn’t contain the amount of love I was experiencing.  It was a physical sensation, starting in the center of my chest and radiating outward, as if my veins and arteries were injected with sunlight. 

Nothing big happened last weekend.  Just a series of tiny, ridiculous domestic joys.  Brightness in the windy trees, as Howe says in her poem.  I’ve held onto that feeling all week long, not willing to give up my happiness hangover.  If I could bottle and sell this feeling, in liquid or tablet form, I’d be richer than the person who rigged the 2024 U.S. presidential election.  

Saint Marty wrote a poem about this love medicine . . . 

You’ll never be broke

by: Martin Achatz

my dad used to say when I asked

for my allowance.  He thought he was

funny as hell, everyone did, but

everyone didn’t grow up in a house

where expressions of love were doled

out like bowls of cabbage broth

during the Great Depression.  This afternoon,

standing in a rest area by Lake Michigan,

I watched my son reach down to rub

our dog’s head generously while my wife

let her lap and lap as much water

as she wanted from her bowl, and I felt

myself crushed by love for them,

as if my dad had just opened his wallet

and finally made good on everything he owed me.

October 15, 2026: “One of the Last Days,” Anniversary, “Spilled Milk”

It’s really easy to take people you love for granted, especially if those people live under the same roof as you.  It’s like having a favorite teeshirt or comfortable chair.  You just assume they’re always going to be there for you until they aren’t.

Marie Howe writes about a person she loved . . . 

One of the Last Days

by: Marie Howe

As through a door in the air that I stepped through sideways

before reaching for a plate high in the cupboard

I find myself in the middle of my life:  May night, raining,

Michael just gone to Provincetown, James making music next door,

lilacs in full bloom, sweet in the dark rain of Cambridge.

One on of the last day I told him, You know how much you love Joe?

That’s how much I love you.  And he said, No.  And I said, Yes.

And he said, No.  And I said, You know it’s true.

And he closed his eyes for a minute.

When he opened them he said, Maybe you better start looking

for somebody else.

Such a sad little poem about love in the face of imminent loss.  Howe knows her brother is dying.  So does he.  She’s trying to convey the depth of her feelings for him, and he’s being practical.  He doesn’t want to leave a brother-sized blackhole in her life when he dies, so he instructs her to start looking for his replacement now before she’s overwhelmed with grief.  

Don’t worry.  This post is not going to be another meditation of loss.  I’m trying to take the advice of my faithful disciple who has left some wise comments on my last couple musings.  While you can’t necessarily choose to be happy (especially if you’re suffering from clinical depression), you CAN choose to focus on happy things every day of your life.  Cultivate joy, so to speak.  You plant the seeds, water them, and wait for them to flower.

Here is my happiness for this week:  my wife and I celebrated our 31 years of marriage on Wednesday.  In reality, we’ve been together, as a couple, for 36 years.  That’s astounding to me.  Driving home this evening, my wife said, “The time has gone by so fast.”  She’s right.  It seems like yesterday when we went on our first official date—a screening of Disney’s The Jungle Book.  We sat in the back row and explored the bare necessities, if you get my meaning.

She has been my rock for close to 40 years now.  Sure, we’ve had some rocky times.  Most marriages do.  But  we’re still here, still together, still in love.  I think that’s an amazing accomplishment in a world that has become sort of disposable.  Over my last five or so months of depression, my wife has listened to me, held my hand, told me over and over “I love you.”  She repeated that phrase so many times because she knows, firsthand, the power of sadness.  

I love my wife, and I am so, so lucky to have her in my life.  

Saint Marty has a happy poem for this happy post . . . 

Spilled Milk

by: Martin Achatz

I cry over lots of things—

the ending of It’s a Wonderful Life,

a midnight charley horse, 

any poem by Mary Oliver,

a saved text message from a dead friend,

a flat tire or dead car battery,

my dog snoring at night in her crate,

a spiderweb bedazzled with morning,

my 18-year-old son kissing me goodnight.  

And you, dear reader, maybe

you’re thinking about how good

your mom’s apple pie was fresh

out of the oven, and that’s bringing

salt to your eyes.  Right now, I’m ready

to cry because I don’t know how

to end this poem about crying

except to offer it a Hershey kiss,

say Everything’s going to be okay

and I will always love you, no matter what 

because that’s what Dolly told me to do.

October 10, 2026: “The Gate,” Being Cheerful, “Super El Niño Winter”

I have been counseled by one of my faithful disciples to cheer up, that all of my posts recently have been too sad.

When I started this blog over ten years ago, I had no idea what I was doing.  I wrote about saints and martyrs, birthdays and funerals.  In the past, I even included a comic strip that I drew.  I studied books and poets I love, and, most importantly, wrote about the messiness of life.  ‘Cuz life is fucking messy.

The Nobel Prizes were announced this past week.  I love watching and following these announcements because they are about honoring individuals and organizations and groups who have made significant, positive contributions to the world. It’s a celebration of humankind at its very best.  Yes, the world can be a flaming pile of trash, but it can also be wonderful.  Sometimes, this happens simultaneously.  

Marie Howe writes about her entry into the wider world . . . 

The Gate

by: Marie Howe

I had no idea that the gate I would step through

to finally enter the world

would be the space my brother’s body made.  He was

a little taller than me:  a young man

but grown, himself by then,

done at twenty-eight, having folded every sheet,

rinsed every glass he would ever rinse under the cold

and running water.

This is what you have been waiting for, he used to say to me.

And I’d say, What?

And he’d say, This—holding up my cheese and mustard sandwich.

And I’d say, What?

And he’d say, This, sort of looking around.

Sometimes, it does take another person to make you see the world clearly.  In this poem, Howe’s brother is the catalyst.  He reminds her to take time to appreciate the world and life, from the smallest of pleasures (a cheese and mustard sandwich) to the largest (actually being with someone you love—her brother).  

The faithful disciple who instructed me to cheer up is my catalyst tonight.  I do realize that my posts from the last few months have been difficult to read.  Messy. That’s because my life over the last few months has been difficult to live.  Messy.  When you’re lost in a dark wood, it’s difficult to find the stars.  For Dante, that process of finding joy took three really long books.  And I doubt anyone told the great poet to cheer up after he completed Inferno. 

But my disciple is right.  I need to provide a little relief from all the darkness I’ve been writing about.  Hear this, though:  telling a person who is struggling with clinical depression to cheer up doesn’t work.  I don’t choose to feel this sadness.  No person would.  I’m on a journey, just like Dante, and I have to get through all the circles of depression before I can start climbing toward the light.

Along the way, though, I can still celebrate the cheese and mustard sandwiches (to borrow an image from Howe) along the way.  Tonight, my sandwich was that my 18-year-old son sat and watched a movie with me after we had dinner.  It was a horror movie based on a Stephen King novella.  My son really got into it, although he kept trying to figure out what was going to happen next.  (He guessed some plot elements correctly.)  After it was over, he got up, turned to me, said, “That was good,” then disappeared into his room upstairs.  

It was almost like winning the Nobel Prize in Literature.  A true blessing.

Saint Marty wrote a poem tonight based on this prompt:  Write a poem that makes light of something serious . . . 

Super El Niño Winter

by:  Martin Achatz

It’s historic, they say, this warming brought on

by ocean temps and jet streams, but I don’t care

as I sit in a lawn chair in my backyard

this New Year’s Eve, slathered with enough SPF 50

to turn me into a ghost.  Pina colada in one hand, 

cell phone in the other, I try to remember where

I stashed my snow shovel in the garage last

April after I was sure no more blizzards were

being imported from Canada.  Even the geese are

still here, mistaking Lake Superior for the Gulf Coast.

Here’s one strutting by me now, breast white

as a snowbank, waiting for that urge

to stretch his wings, join that arrow of honkers

flying south for the summer.

October 9, 2026: “The Grave,” Saint Marty’s Day, “Phaeton”

Greetings Faithful Disciples!

Monday was Saint Marty’s Day and it was a wonderful 24 hours.  I received so many messages from friends and family.  It was a lovely reminder that I am loved and appreciated.  (In recent months, as you know, I’ve struggled with sadness and a strong sense of worthlessness.)  It was like medicine for me.  My great niece from Detroit, who made a pilgrimage to the Upper Peninsula to visit us, sent me a beautiful message that put me in the weeds.  Cried for a good five minutes.

In the last few years, I’ve become more and more aware of my own mortality.  Just this past year, two high school friends died, one unexpectedly and one after a brief cancer battle.  My time is limited.  EVERYONE’s time is limited.  Birthdays just make that fact harder to ignore.  I think that’s why birthdays become less and less exciting as time goes by.

Marie Howe writes about  visiting her dead brother . . . 

The Grave

by: Marie Howe

That first summer I lay on the grass above it as if it were

a narrow bed, just my size,

lying on the ground above my brother’s body like a log

floating on lake water above its own shadow.

                                                       ***

During the first winter I drove there one afternoon

after Tom and Andy and Beth and Dor and Bahia had been there.

When I stepped out of the car their footprints marked the snowy lawn:

the men’s big boots, the women’s smaller ones,

and Bahia’s little boot prints, as big as my hand, looping and falling down

into a snow angel next to his grave, then another messy angel on it,

and, a grave or two away, another one, and the little blotch where she got up

and brushed herself off.  For some crazy reason I was wearing

high-heeled shoes in the snow, and, walking back to the car, they made

ovals and dots, fat exclamation marks,

walking inside the steps of my brothers and sisters.

                                                       ***

One November, years later, I went there with Andy

who was, by then, as old as John was when he died,

as we lay on the frozen ground,

me, using my scarf as a pillow, on John’s grave,

and Andy, on top of our father’s grave, one grave away,

and we talked like that for a little while, companionably,

like an old couple talking in bed,

our eyes closed against the sunlight,

and when I cried, Andy didn’t seem to wish me to stop, and that

was a kind of happiness,

lying there with my living brother, talking about our family.

The ground was cold.

Eventually the chill crept through our coats and jeans and

we scuffled up—Andy reached down

to give me his hand—and then it was over.

We walked together back to the car and away from them.

As you can probably guess, this poem does nothing to lift my spirits.  It’s about the death of Howe’s brother, who, I believe, was a victim of the AIDS epidemic.  She misses him and wants to be as close to him as she can.  So she drives to his grave and lays down on it.  Perhaps presses her ear to the ground, half-expecting, I’m sure, to hear her brother’s laughter or heartbeat.  

Ten or so years ago, my parents and all of my siblings were still alive.  I knew loss, but peripherally—acquaintances and grandmothers and colleagues.  I was like Dante, lost in a dark wood in the midpoint of my life, grief chasing me through the trees, baying and snarling.  These days, I’m surrounded by my dead.  They wake me up in the middle of the night.  Drive to work with me.  Sometimes, they even teach my classes and write my poems.  

Both my father and mother lived long lives.  They buried two of their children and most of their close friends.  Their funerals were small affairs, consisting of my siblings, a few close relatives, and a handful of acquaintances.  Advanced age has a way of winnowing attendance of memorial services.  Yet, I firmly believe both my parents were surrounded by ghosts in their last days—Virgils to shepherd them on their journeys.  Mom and Dad were living, breathing haunted houses.

I’m not planning on shuffling off this mortal coil any time soon.  Hopefully, I will be around to haunt you for many Saint Marty Days to come. I don’t want to be a ghost, whispering my gratitude into the ears of loved ones.  While I can still draw breath, I want to say “thank you” to everyone who has helped, loved, encouraged, consoled, and lifted me up during my life. 

Because the real gifts in life aren’t Apple watches or iPads or cars or roses or balloons or tapioca.

It’s the people.

Saint Marty wrote a this poem a little while ago.  A meditation on youth and mortality . . . 

Phaeton

by: Martin Achatz

Phaeton slipped the keys for his dad’s
Firebird into his pocket, climbed out
his bedroom window, hot-footed
to the garage where he shifted the waiting
chariot into neutral, let it glide down
the driveway into the street. Phaeton slid
behind the wheel, ignited the engine, felt
horses trembling awake beneath the hood.
He stomped on the gas, and his world
lunged from 0 to 60 to 70 to 80 to 90,
each curve and bend of the road
a challenge to inertia and gravity.
Phaeton aimed his nose toward sunrise,
rolled down his window, and cruised, sure,
like every teenager, he was going to live forever.

October 3, 2026: “The Cold Outside,” Absence, “The Impossibility of Honey”

Greetings, faithful disciples.

In my last post, I gave you a catalogue of trials and tribulations, from a broken sewer line to a strong bout of clinical depression.  I’ve always believed that the Book of Job in the Bible was allegorical.  I mean, who would believe so much shit could be heaped on the head of such a decent, honest human being?  And with God’s approval?  Today, I would file Job’s story under nonfiction versus religious studies or philosophy.  In short, because of my experiences these last few months, I understand Job’s struggles a LOT more.  

I’m not looking for sympathy.  Everyone deals with sadness and calamities in their lives.  That’s part of being a human being.  The world is a broken place, with broken people calling the shots.  My little laundry list of struggles is pretty inconsequential compared to Super El Niños and genocides and famines.  In fact, most people would look at my life and think, “What the hell do you have to be upset about?”  And those people would be correct.

That doesn’t negate the power of prolonged depression.  Rationally, I know I’m a really lucky person—roof over my head, food in the fridge, warm clothes, and jobs that pay all the bills (for the most part).  Overwhelming sadness, however, is not rational.  It comes from a place of worry, fear, and anxiety.  

Marie Howe writes about looming dread . . . 

The Cold Outside

by: Marie Howe

Soon I will die, he said—that was during the heat wave that summer:

the orange lilies bending toward the house beside the driveway,

the heater in his car broken on blasting.

And the green shade flapped against the window screen,

as if what was out there inhaled and exhaled,

sliding away from the window, banging lightly against the sill,

sucked flat against the screen,

then peeling off and blowing out again.

Today the cold outside is bright and brittle,

heaps of hard snow between the sidewalk and the street,

and look, someone has shoveled a narrow path in front of the bakery,

so that, walking, a person has to step aside

and let another person through,

or pass through as the other person steps aside.

Soon I will die, he said, and then

what everyone has been afraid of for so long will have finally happened,

and then everyone can rest.

This is not an easy poem.  It’s a hard poem, filled with hard reality.  I’ve seen enough of my loved ones fade away and die to know both the pain and relief of loss.  My brother died suddenly, only after suffering for years with the effects of a stroke.  My sister, Sally, struggled for over two years, and my sister, Rose, was in and out of the hospital several times in the last year of her life.  Both of my parents ended up in nursing homes near the end of their lives.

Emily Dickinson wrote that Death “kindly stops” to pick up passengers, because, in the face of immense, daily anguish, mortality IS kind.  Terrifying (if you don’t believe in an afterlife), but kind.  I think Death did kindly stop for my mom, dad, sisters, and brother.  And don’t forget that the other passenger in Dickinson’s fatal carriage ride, besides Dickinson herself, is Immortality.  That’s the reason I find Dickinson’s vision of the Grim Reaper almost hopeful.  It’s not an end.  It’s a journey.

Of course, that knowledge doesn’t make the absence of someone you love any easier.  Loss is loss, and it comes with a whole trainload of grief.  As a way to combat my recent depression, I’ve been streaming episodes of the sitcom M*A*S*H.  It’s a TV show I have clear memories of watching with my entire family, every week.  Sure, my father was sort of MAGA-ish before MAGA was even a thing.  And yes, I didn’t always understand the episodes dealing with the insanities of war when I was younger.  But Hawkeye and BJ and Klinger and Colonel Potter and Hot Lips and the rest of the 4077th showed up every week, without fail.  

I often get stuck on movies and TV shows, watching them over and over and over to the dismay of my wife and son.  I reread books from my youth, as well.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve visited Holden Caulfield or Wilbur and Charlotte or Willy Wonka.  It’s comforting to know how the story ends, even if that ending is incredibly sad.  (Charlotte’s death destroys me every time.)  No surprises.

That’s very comforting for a person dealing with overwhelming fear and anxiety and sadness.  It’s like a security blanket.  Sure Holden has a breakdown at the end of The Catcher in the Rye, but he’s getting help and will eventually be reunited with his beloved little sister Phoebe.  Yes, the Korean War ends and Hawkeye returns to Crabapple Cove, but he survived.  If I know the fates of all these characters I love, I don’t have to worry about the future (which, for me, is a constant source of Sturm und Drang).  

Last Sunday, my puppy was attacked again by a German shepherd.  The attack resulted in some serious wounds that required surgery.  There is a row of staples running down my puppy’s back; it looks like she’s been zippered into her body.  She’s going to be alright, thank God.  However, this past week has been really difficult for me, mood wise.  Let’s just say that even Hawkeye couldn’t save my emotional life.

I’m going to be okay.  I tell myself that every morning.  Remind myself of it frequently during the day.  Repeat it as I’m drifting off to sleep.  It’s my mantra at the moment.  I’ll keep chanting it in my head until my puppy is healed, my plumbing problems are fixed, and you-know-who is no longer occupying the Oval Office.  At the moment, those things seem impossible.

But Saint Marty knows, as the song goes, the sun will come out tomorrow.  In the meantime, here’s a poem Saint Marty wrote about impossible things that are true . . . 

The Impossibility of Honey

by: Martin Achatz

Saturn is gas, would float in a bathtub

lead snows on Venus’s mountaintops

Jupiter’s red pupil is a 300-year-old storm

winter lasts 42 pitch-black years on Uranus

the Sun dances in Mercury’s skies—rising, stopping, reversing

one volcano on Mars could swallow Arizona

Neptune was discovered through math:  x + y = planet

ice mountains float across Pluto’s surface

and bees fly 750 miles on Earth to create 

          a single teaspoon of sweetness