By George Mills
I was sitting on the back steps
mumbling a toothpick,
thinking about the mayflies
dying in the kitchen sink.
My reveries kept changing sex,
then flew off into a frenzy
of cathedral building.
How sad, I thought, that I will add
nothing to oblivion.
That’s when I looked up, stepped off
into the landscape of these nine
(count them slowly!) enchanted women.
A retired anthropology professor turned landscaper, the quixotic George Mills was a well-loved figure in the Vineyard poetry community. Until his death in 2001, George and his wife Florrie shared a small home in Oak Bluffs, where they hosted frequent gatherings of poets, musicians, activists, and other thinkers.