The Little Things We Forget

I had an emergency errand I needed to run
first thing this morning:
so I leaped out of bed, in my nightie and bare feet,
out the back door and down to the end of our yard.

The cool dew on my bare feet was delicious.
How could I ever forget such a sensation?

I paused to look around at the fresh morning
and stood amazed at how the sun's rays slanted across the yard.

I always mean to take my morning coffee
on the back porch, but I seldom do . . .
instead I sit here and pound out email for the day,
or wring words for this blog.

Yet, when I came back inside,
this morning after my dip in the sun,
I had a real thirst
for _Hamlet_, Act III:


To StatCount, or not to StatCount,-- that is the question:--
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to count
The visitors and geekers of our glorious blogs,
Or to imagine wistfully about those who may pass by,
And by ignorance justify our writing?--To calculate,--to compute,--
Don't start; and by a computation to say we understand
The types and the thousand natural habits
Of those who surf the web,--'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To calculate,--to compute;--
To know! perchance to dream:--ay, there's the rub;
For in that knowing of calculation what visitors may come,
When we have stripped our blogs this lasting wonder,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes knowing the secretive so punative . . .