“Poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flower goes into the making of bread.” — Neruda

I’ve come to appreciate Neruda.

One can’t help it with a name like that and his sayings. He shared his thoughts.

I’m assuming his days are over. Perhaps someone can correct that with a letter back to me.

My first weekend away occurred the previous weekend with Jana Peterson and her family in Cloquet. Jana and Brady were the last residents to live at Vilt’s Valley down below the hospice. Rerouted Turtle Creek water brought down the house after its course was changed.

Jana arranged a meeting for us with a publisher in Duluth at 2 p.m. in a small comfortable coffee house. Jana had talked with the publisher over the phone and arranged the Friday meeting.

The publisher resembled Frank Razidlo we decided. The biggest part of the time was spent between the two of them.

The next day was also the twins’ birthday as well as Jana’s and Veteran’s Day even included me. We were off to four hours of fun with six or seven young lads all armed with the play guns I hadn’t seen before. The battles continued almost steady throughout the day near the ski jump hill.

Jana managed the group and I went around picking up things on the ground that shouldn’t be on the ground.

Later three of the boys spent the evening at Jana’s house. Brady and Franny went hunting.

Then there was the happy dog that enjoys life more than most animals. Jana and I took the dog for a nice eight-block walk.

Cloquet has a way about it that is comfortable. The restaurant provided veterans a free meal Friday night and that was nice.

And now I’m back in Austin with Mello and Fred spending a good portion of their time chewing on each other’s ears, legs, cheeks when they are playfully assaulting one another. Fred is napping beside me and Mello is stretched out on a couch in the back room.

It’s nice to be home.