Though he himself has left us, in these crystalline haiku-like poems LEONARD ROBINSON's wry, sagacious, loving way with the world comes stunningly to life. He was a staff writer at The New Yorker, and an editor at Esquire, Colliers, and at Holt Rinehard publishing company; but the last three decades of his life were divided between Mexico and Missoula, Montana, where he died in 1999. The writer Deidre McNamer has written, "Leonard was a listener, a muser; a laugher, a guide. He served as a generous and insightful mentor to many writers of fiction and nonfiction. He could recite reams of poetry by heart, even when he began to forget where he had parked the car. . . . His many friends called him 'Padre.'" And, after reading this book, so will you.