The Editor’s Chair

As spring comes to the garden, I drag my editor’s chair (a rather bad, recycled plastic thing that I vow to replace every year) to the pond. At last I can sit outside and read and then think about what I’ve read while I look out at my front yard of redwood trees. Some of them are over a hundred years old, and they are what has kept me in this place for years–so long that I’ve taken root almost as deeply as the trees I love.

I promise no more poetry, but I might take a chance and write a story about his place one day.