No, not here. Here.
Mark Shea's lovely afternoon adventure has prompted what follows; I apologize to Joyce Kilmer for stealing the format, and to everyone else for inflicting badly written poetry on all of you. It's Friday, though, and I have a rather busy weekend ahead of me, so I hope you'll overlook it just this once:
I think that I shall never see
Prose like Mark's on the cherry tree.
A tree whose dryad arms wave wild
Round both the grown and growing child;
A tree that fills a warm gray day
With joy like sunshine's piercing ray;
A tree bejeweled, sparkling, draped
With dark rich red and kingly cape;
A tree whose choicest gifts are seen
And snatched, and given to a Queen.
Though this I write with stolen style
Joyce Kilmer, reading Mark, would smile.