Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly, Asleep on the black trunk, blowing like a leaf in green shadow. Down the ravine behind the empty house, The cowbells follow one another Into the distances of the afternoon. To my right, In a field of sunlight between two pines, The droppings of last year's horses Blaze up into golden stones. I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on. A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home. I have wasted my life.  James Wright If forgetfulness is the (virtue/vice) of a culture that embraces literature--then I am happy in a paradoxical way.    Literature is the immortal song of poets and muses that breathe a breath in the nooks, cranny’s and the alleyways of our souls.        To clarify what I wrote this morning--for I can see now that it was extremely vague--literature is a written tradition that immortalizes the writer, the work itself, and finally the reader--who becomens emottionally apart of the work in question. Personally--I become attached to words and their denotations, their conations and the feeling of sound rolling off my tongue--tasting like blossom blackberries and the sweetest wine.  Literature becomes us--or rather--we become the literature we read and write--if only for a moment--gazing out like James Wright on the setting sun.