The questions are the quest

My world began in the eyes of a poet who saw his muse crossing the street, wooed her on the covered bridges of Illinois’ soybean fields and carried her away to the ivy covered walls of a university.

I was weaned on the Rosetta Stone and old Irish ballads.  In my father’s world Shakespeare sat side by side with Chaucer and Yeats and these were surrounded by the bones of a past so old and secure that there was no question in my mind what I would be when I grew up. 

I am it.

No more practical now than it was when I was a child of four, my world still revolves around writing and books and the fairy tales that comprise the real world.  I look for the dreamers, the lovers, the people who understand that life goes beyond that round file cabinet sitting under a desk gobbling up electric bills and water bills, grocery lists and used tissues.

I am still surrounded by ivy covered walls.  Shakespeare and Yeats sit sentinel around me as do Faulkner and Agee.  The Irish ballads have morphed into music played on a mellow guitar in the dim twilight of a winter’s evening.

Life in the eyes of a poet never changes.  The answers have always been there.  It's the questions that are the quest.