A correspondence with Emerson

Five years ago I write this poem . . .

This Is Life in North Carolina

—for AWH

Mosquitoes swarm above the grass

in the front yard, in the back,

challenging us to come and try them out.

We hesitate going outside,

knowing the biting consequences

and their old discomforts.

World, we suspect, isn’t meant for us,

though we admit we don’t mean

anything of the sort.

Then, one night recently, I stumble upon this aphorism while reading Emerson:

"Do what we can, summer will have its flies.  If we walk in the woods, we must feed mosquitoes."

Can I never say or write anything original?  Why would I want to?  I belong to the general conversation, and am requited there.