Once again Russell Buker brings his concise powers of language and observation as he dreams with us while exploring his immediate landscape with its subtle sounds and the world beyond. And in this world beyond we also catch glimpses of ourselves and our condition. There are no answers here as we are still evolving, rather a similarity that is left to the reader to interpret if one is so inclined toward reflection in our fast-food zoom of a lifetime's constantly changing in its technology.
Expressive weather but my center holds. We get all weather somewhere else, of course everyone has a right to ask, the ageing poet with all the ramifications of working into the Hegelian dialectal progress of one's life one cannot help but be amazed at an ability to continue and I am still surprised everyday by the haunting of a poem in myself creating portentous feelings, thoughts or perceptions that were not there before. Bob Dylan originally gave up on anyone over thirty and now he is much older than thirty. People also have lamented that even Wordsworth degenerated into laborious prosody and now I, well over double thirty, armed with the knowledge that my writing is merely my way of attempting to understand my, our, incomplete synecdoche allowing me to write patiently waiting for the other aged shoe to fall. Please do not be misled that I am endeavoring to equate myself with the genius of a Wordsworth rather, as Yeats said in "The Wild Swans of Coole" When I awake someday/to find they have flown away so my hope is that when my words disappear from an escaping sentence that someone will know enough to signal me or that I will become aware that dullness of creative endeavor has fallen softly on my own hopeful attempts.