To Jack Evans on his birthday
In this Valley is a poet/As eloquent as Robert Frost, but warmer.
He manages to be Modest and Majestic with equal immenseness, and a propensity/To shift the focus to his friends, for whom/He produces a neverending supply of care and loving kindness.
His poetry stitches reality-swatches of variable size/into quilts that startle or soothe/or absorb your teardrops/and at the same time, in quantum superposition/the quilt is also a symphony. It is remarkable
What thundering crescendos come from a man/who never raises his voice.
Hardship and grief have never managed/To extinguish the twinkle in his eye.
See him: Walking a hospital corridor as a volunteer, firing up a favorite, obscure film for an appreciative audience, hosting a poetry event with jovial anecdotes and well-deep insights, at home wherever he goes, but most so at the side of his beloved Judy.
Now, please, wish him Happy Birthday, as I do, with love.
One with Clay, Image and Text 