Oh To Be A Pear Tree –

Ships At A Distance Have Every Man's Wish On Board. For Some They Come In With The Tide. For Others They Sail Forever On The Same Horizon, Never Out Of Sight, Never Landing Until The Watcher Turns His Eyes Away In Resignation, His Dreams Mocked To Death By Time. That Is The Life Of Men. Now, Women Forget All Those Things They Don't Want To Remember, And Remember Everything They Don't Want To Forget. The Dream Is The Truth. Then They Act And Do Things Accordingly.

The Sun, The Hero Of Every Day, The Impersonal Old Man That Beams As Brightly On Death As On Birth, Came Up Every Morning.

Now, Suppose A Negro Does Something Really Magnificent, And I Glory, Not In The Benefit To Mankind, But In The Fact That The Doer Was A Negro. Must I Not Also Go Hang My Head In Shame When A Member Of My Race Does Something Execrable? . . . The White Race Did Not Go Into A Laboratory And Invent Incandescent Light. That Was Edison. . . . If You Are Under The Impression That Every White Man Is An Edison, Just Look Around A Bit.

She Stood There Until Something Fell Off The Shelf Inside Her. Then She Went Inside There To See What It Was. It Was Her Image Of Jody Tumbled Down And Shattered. But Looking At It She Saw That It Never Was The Flesh And Blood Figure Of Her Dreams. Just Something She Had Grabbed Up To Drape Her Dreams Over.

Folklore Is The Boiled-down Juice, Or Pot-likker, Of Human Living.