Bard Profit

Good morning that wonderful place.

The page!

Welcome back.

Today in its many forms.
Can it have more than one?

Time and deep thoughts for an alarm clock.

So, we write about the surroundings.

The stuff.
There's Abe napping near the porch.
The halfmoon was still in the light blue sky.
Wasn't the super blue just a few days ago?
How come a half showed?
A cloud?
A tilt?

There's a red-tailed hawk in the neighborhood. First time I've heard him in the morning.

Usually out for a late lunch, a two or three o'clock pick me up. An early evening supper. Early to bed and early to rise catches the cliche, after all.

Feet on the ground, head in the sky march into the day.

March into more words. And the acts performed to keep the peace to sit and write them, read them, work, work, work with them.

"Why, Wynn? You're intelligent enough to sell stocks, to work the market, to flip real estate, why sit and work with words all day for no pay?"

It's the only work I know that feels like accomplishment to me. And my time is more valuable than any profit from Hedge funds.

What is gained and not what is seen as lost.

Worth has absolutely nothing to do with price.
And everything to do with time.

My life. My life. My life, as The Bard said it so long ago.

Work. Work. Work.

"Words. Words. Words. My life. My life. My life." To mash a couple quotes from the prince who's actually the king.

Suppose I could put them in iambic pentameter.
But counting feet is not for mornings to keep,
The day is the work done and the work done, its own reward to reap.