While I was out walking among the flowers today, I came across this incredible white rose.  I thought how perfect it is, and then I saw on the buds some little insects that would surely not be healthy for the plant.  I looked at other buds on the rose bush and found that they were also covered with the little 

bugs. For some reason I thought immediately about what I might do to destroy the invading insects, and then I remembered one of favorite poems... one by e.e. cummings.  I went home and found the poem and include it here.  I'll leave the little critters alone, I decided.  I found that I had taken a picture also today of something that was not born but was made.  I include it just for the hell of it.  I suppose I was affected by listening to the Trump guy talk about the Syrian tragedy and watching as he tried to describe how disturbed he is by the "killing of infants... just little babies" with poison gas, and I thought of what he is doing in our country to keep help from going to poor people, babies trapped in families where there won't be money and education enough for basic care... and then I remembered the days when I was a teacher and wondered what I would be saying to kids who are undoubtedly thinking and talking about this new set of problems. Sometimes listening and reading poems to them is the best thing to do.

'pity this busy monster, manunkind' pity this busy monster, manunkind, not. Progress is a comfortable disease: your victim (death and life safely beyond) plays with the bigness of his littleness --- electrons deify one razorblade into a mountainrange; lenses extend unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish returns on its unself. A world of made is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this fine specimen of hypermagical ultraomnipotence. We doctors know a hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hell of a good universe next door; let's go E. E. Cummings