Paco has been known to write The Sun from time to time–mainly in the early days of spring like we are in now, where we get lots of sun, but then days more of rain, with sun breaks. It can get to a guy, even a poet like Paco.
So when I was cleaning up an area in the donkey paddock, Paco slipped me a sealed envelope, addressed to: "Sun, c/o Sky, Universe, zip code unknown". Like before he trusted me to put a stamp on it and mail it. Why not? Why can't the Sun get mail.
But as usual, the Lucy Ricardo in me took over and I held the envelope up to the light to read the contents. I am not sure what is more endearing, that he trusts me with such tasks, or that he is on a first name basis with The Sun.
It is me, Paco. I am hoping you will be out
this weekend. It is my annual gathering of mice
and the other donkeys where I read one poem.
Last year it rained and my paper got wet.
I can not memorize.
Please come out at 1pm on Saturday.
Fondly, Paco, Apifera Farm