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The Fury of Aerial Bombardment

I skim the paper almost daily and I'm usually sorry afterwards. People are dolts or worse.
Rove said goodbye to his modest second-floor office (the one formerly occupied by Hillary Clinton) and hello to a larger space downstairs, just a few steps away from the Oval Office. (Dan Froomkin, Washingtonpost.com 6/14)


But then I saw that Richard Eberhart died last week at age 101. I am sorry to say that I rather dismissed him earlier in my reading days. When I would read, say, The Groundhog, I would go hmmmm and head off to find some Roethke or Hopkins. But I have a thing for Roethke and a monstrous thing for GMH (sometimes I just call him G). Anyway, I'm truly repentent now and promise to spend some more time reading his poems. The Eclipse, for one, seems like a nice one to remember in between putting down the paper and getting on with my life.

The Eclipse

I stood out in the open cold
To see the essence of the eclipse
Which was its perfect darkness.

I stood in the cold on the porch
And could not think of anything so perfect
As mans hope of light in the face of darkness.

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