while the sun doth shine

otherwise entitled "Acceptance." or "Publication." Finally. I've been taken. Ravished by a literary magazine who wants two of my poems, three for the radio, read out loud by a real live person out of Springfield, Illinois, birthplace of my mother (not Springfield, just IL) and happiest place in the world.

I wish I had been Abigail Adams. But she's dead and I'm alive and if one person likes my poetry, another might, and then another and another until I have a group of people who say "my, but she's a lovely writer, and shouldn't she have a book, or three?" And I'll happily acquiesce, sail a sea (balmy and ceylon blue), quoting lines not my own and singing Barbara Allen.

Would it have been better to have been loved by old John? Or David? Or Thomas? Or to live in single blessedness a lifetime through, lonely as anything, with no assurances of anything but more of the same? Can you live on hope alone?

Penny philosopher. Lover of sensational novels. Salutations Wilkie Collins and highnesses everywhere--cockleshells and ladies in white and paint-chipped chairs in the middle of sun-lit rooms.

In other words, good night, good night, ladies, goodnight.