like a clock.
Fallen leaves confess to shoes
while mice mumble communion prayers
up and down fields of alfalfa.
As Andromeda bends over for a good-night kiss
her dark hair cascades into our eyes.
She tucks us into the night
and the moon shows her
what we have become–
shadows on the prairie.
— Vic Contoski
I’m enjoying retirement no end. I’m working on a long sequence of short dream poems. I’ve completed a manuscript of my adventures at The Monroe Institute, detailing the material in the classes I took (strange stuff!), and Jo and I are working on the book on Spiritual Awakenings, about the classes we hold in my home.