Ink. We have a poet Laureate in this town of 22,000 people, and have had for at least a decade. Her job is to lift us into a place where we remember to breathe. Here’s a bit the current PL recently posted on facebook that has stuck in my heart like cupid’s dart: “Someone forgot to tell the cello what is possible unearthly notes flying at fierce angles past frozen suns, this stringed creature who believes so deeply in line that points disappear and the sky becomes an imagined space beyond orchestral navigation beyond what is possible. Someone forgot to tell the cello.” GW Raspberry, “Eight String Religion” from As Though It Could Be Otherwise Thanks Terry. thanks, Gary. I feel the same way about morning glories. And I’m a cello player, even. Share this:PrintEmailFacebookTwitterLinkedInPinterestRedditTumblrLike this:Like Loading...