There will be far better obits in every form of print tomorrow than this meagre blog post that no one will read. I'd be remiss, though, if I didn't mention the passing of someone who's work was so formative of my own and my outlook on life.
People make a stink when a movie star or a musician dies early - what a waste, they say. When one croaks later in life, they say they gave us so much. Writers (especially poets like Page) seem to come into their own only once they shuffle off this mortal coil: so, they really just start giving posthumously.
If there's a life after this one, it belongs to them. And so, here's how I'll remember dear old P.K. Page:
*Just the day after, this came to my attention: Page's poem "Planet Earth" was selected by the United Nations as part of a program to keep people talking about, what else, but the blue marble.
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