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It is Wednesday at noon.

Voices carry through the big rental house.

I'm under my covers..just for a moment reading from my favorite poet Billy Collins.

We got the big master bedroom (sweeeeet) because we have a baby and it is the most soundproof and isolated.

Kate is breathing heavily and sucking on her binkie close by. This brings me back to Billy Collins. Man, I love reading his poetry.

I'm on lunch duty in about 15 more minutes. Just enough time to read this....

THE INTRODUCTION

I don't think this next poem

needs any introduction-

it's best to let the work speak for itself.

Maybe I should just mention

that whenever I use the word five,

I'm referring to that group of Russian composers

who came to be known as "The Five,"

Balakirev, Moussorgsky, Borodin-that crowd.

Oh-and Hypsicles was a Greek astronomer.

He did something with the circle.

That's about it, but for the record,

"Grimke" is Angelina Emily Grimke, the abolitionist.

"Imroz" is that little island near the Dardanelles.

"Monad"- well, you all know what a monad is.

There could be a little problem

with mastaba, which is one of those Egyptian

above-ground sepulchres, sort of brick and limestone.

And you're all familiar with helminthology?

It's the science of worms.

Oh, and you will recall that Phoebe Mozee

is the real name of Annie Oakley.

Other than that, everything should be obvious.

Wagga Wagga is in New South Wales.

Rhyolite is that soft volcanic rock.

What else?

Yes, meranti is a type of timber, in tropical Asia I think,

and Rahway is just Rahway, New Jersey.

The rest of the poem should be clear.

I'll just read it and let it speak for itself

It's about the time I went picking wild strawberries.

It's called "Picking Wild Strawberries."

Oh Billy, you're so clever. I'll read one more before I head in for lunch. Cold cuts, fruit and chips. Oh, and I bought some little ice cream bars. Those are always a hit.

I wonder who he is writing about in this next poem.

ON NOT FINDING YOU AT HOME

Usually you appear at the front door

when you hear my steps on the gravel,

but today the door was closed,

not a wisp of pale smoke from the chimney.

I peered into a window

but there was nothing but a table with a comb,

some yellow flowers in a glass of water

and dark shadows in the corner of the room.

I stood for a while under the big tree

and listened to the wind and the birds,

your wind and your birds,

your dark green woods beyond the clearing.

This is not what it is like to be you,

I realized as a few of your magnificent clouds

flew over the rooftop.

It is just me thinking about being you.

And before I headed back down the hill,

I walked in a circle around your house,

making an invisible line

which you would have to cross before dark.

Well, time to put him away. Must exit this secluded, warm room. Must feed the little ones. Thank you Billy.