Saturday morning, well armed
coffee cup and newspapers,
from days past and miracle!
even future, Sunday news,
prematurely birthed.
Content to content.

Pandora supplies the music,
outside, clouds of steam tinge,
decorate a pale blue sky,
freshwater pearls from man,
a choker to grace
nature's blue purity.

All's well, a weekend day as
God meant it to be, labor free.

Then I am weeping.

Dan Fogelberg, poet songwriter,
cancer victim, longtime gone,
weeps me into a memorable mess.

Leader of the Band,
a tribute to his father,
shipwrecks me on his
river of souls.

So much more, needs adding.

But songs end, and so do I.

But the tears keep reforming,
falling freely as I acknowledge freely,
my father too, a good man,
a cancer victim,
who led his band,
his fellow patients in the
doctor's waiting room
in spontaneous uplifting song.

I have no idea why
I was so entitled.
I have no idea
what to entitle this.

As Dan wrote/sang,
cry when you have to,
it's part of the plan.