Transition: Part I of too many to count and counting

Some thoughts on impending moves and such

I love this poem by Marianne Moore:

Silence

My father used to say,
"Superior people never make long visits,
have to be shown Longfellow's grave
or the glass flowers at Harvard.
Self-reliant like the cat--
that takes its prey to privacy,
the mouse's limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth--
they sometimes enjoy solitude,
and can be robbed of speech
by speech which delights them.
The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;
not in silence, but restraint."
Nor was he insincere in saying, "Make my house your inn."
Inns are not residences.

Wondrous it is that a little golden haired girl and her cooing cohort can rob me of speech. I hope I can remember that "Inns are not residences."