There’s a wonderful, poetic paragraph (admid all the other wonderfully written paragraphs) in Ms. DiCamillo’s book, The Magician’s Elephant, “But that is impossible,” said Peter. “Magic is always impossible,” said the magician. “It begins with the impossible and ends with the impossible and is impossible in between. That is why it is magic.”
She has written a lovely book, one that you could pull down from the shelf at any time over the years and read any paragraph of it and be inspired. It’s a story like a string of perfect pearls: each character is right and sweet and hopeful. Each is a dreamer and a believer.
Read and enjoy. And thank you, Ms. DiCamillo.
The other two cats are getting along ok with her now, but she’s a true “scaredy cat.” She spends most of her time running away when I get near her. Now that I’m sitting here writing, though, she’s twining under my legs. 
The landscaping around my new house was very Fred Flinstone: all the flower beds were edged with field stone. Now, I like the look of field stone in a wall, like Frost’s “Mending Wall,” or maybe a fireplace surround, but not stuck along the edge of the lawn like cake flowers. For the last week I’ve been systematically moving the stone to a large pile. Unlike Frost, I have no wall to build, though, so I just have to find someone who does.
Poetiosity 
