I have spent the last week in lockdown at the national sales meeting in Williamsburg, VA (at which I got little-to-no time to actually look at the colonial area across the street). Yesterday morning was departure, so a friend and I took the hour or so we had free to go find souveniers for our wives and daughters and went to the tchochkie district to shop.
We stepped into a used bookstore, and on a shelf I found the ultimate geek ubertreasure. It is a small volume of poetry, published by Blue Mountain Press in 1976, and edited by (shudder) Susan Polis Schutz. It contains such deep and profound thoughts as:
You fill me
With your love
You fill me
With your caring
You fill me
With your thoughts
You fill me
With your sharing
The title of this slim collection, purchased at the amazing price of three bucks, is We Are All Children Searching For Love, and the poet (who should be named laureate of some small island somewhere that produces commemorative stamps and coins) is none other than Leonard Nimoy.
My only comment at the time, and now, is that he excels as a poet to the extent he excels as a singer.