Spring winds at my back; I can almost see her behind galleon clouds…faded Emerald Isle; she rests in green splendor side by side with family bones, rocky soil and troubles. The troubles.
A simple jig plays, as I search for verdant velvet hedges and my own leprechaun waiting for me at home. I dream and drive, while sailing homeward bound in fresher, safer spaces.
On my mind, a photo of my Grandfather McMahon at the tender age of twelve…standing with no shoes…in a glass factory…surrounded by rough looking men.
The boy, the man with the lovely tenor voice…
690 Saint Paul 