I know, I know. I shouldn't write about wild roses, much less
honeysuckle. Aren't we so over roses and honeysuckle?
But when I run their scent gets me high.
Especially in this morning's humidity. Drunk on flower scent.
All along the roads that are part of my loop.
This won't last. I'm not complaining.
Summer reading is on my mind. A partial list:
Song of Myself
Biography of Whitman
Anthology of contemporary poems inspired by Whitman
(In preparation for fall exhibition at the Museum where I work)
Bosworth"s biography of Diane Arbus
David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest
I think these will get me some mileage. There are more.