I have had hordes of big burly men all over the mountain for three weeks in a row now -- and, sadly, not for the reason for which I'd usually want big burly men all over Moi.
Nope, I'm talking 'bout construction construction construction -- from cementing patios to cutting pathways to putting up low stone walls to putting up stone oak tree holders to trimming big oaks to replacing the printer to etcetera etcera.
Which is to say, I can't exagerrate the pleasure from this conversation:
Him: what do you do?
Moi: I'm a poet....
Him: Like what kind...?
Moi: Don't know. I'll have to quote a pal; he sez I write "avant garde bullshit"...
Cut to the chase:
Moi: Here are love poems.
Him: Thank you! I know I may look [motions to his t-shirt and grungy shorts]...but I love poetry.
Yadda. Poetry -- it's all a Gift. And needless to say, Moi told Him: You look just fine....!