Holiday Hill

Pulling off onto Holiday Hill…

Looking for sophistication…still.

What to find without pills for the mind?

Bald mountains with white caps.

Shuttered Mom and Pop motels afraid of winter’s snow.

Deadpan trail cops, uncertain with authority.

Cabins for the fancy people.

Camps for the basics.

Time flies by on the tails of…risk-taking fowl.

Oh, memory be kind.

Now that I give myself away.

February in the Spring

 

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Spring day in February

Hurt, ache, dispersed…and, now whisked away for just one day.

A particular release that no written word can negate.

The aroma of hope absorbed in cedar turns from scent to sound.

Magic in enjoying languid moments…

relishing in standing still with no chill, no longer a myth.

There is music in loving winter when it decides to go.

 

In the dark months, I attempt to realize not ‘everything is in my mind.’

In the light of now…when wind turns to breeze, my feet dare not touch the ground.

A fleeting thought as the sun goes down,

‘when the weather changes…never be the last to know.’

Not the Good Word

I ask, ‘what good is a word…wrapped in barbwire?

It is expression squeezed dry of color.

Cross-words lacking landscape…deprivation in an isolated world.

An imperfect storm in which memory is unfurled.imageedit_6_2229196388

All this language bantered about with the hue of integrity bleeding out.

When will childhood become a Polaroid from the past?

Words, words, words, ugly…looking to get further down the road.

Not knowing where they were first planted.

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the Work of Happiness by May Sarton

 

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I thought of happiness, how it is woven
Out of the silence in the empty house each day
And how it is not sudden and it is not given
But is creation itself like the growth of a tree.
No one has seen it happen, but inside the bark
Another circle is growing in the expanding ring.
No one has heard the root go deeper in the dark,
But the tree is lifted by this inward work
And its plumes shine, and its leaves are glittering.
So happiness is woven out of the peace of hours
And strikes its roots deep in the house alone:
The old chest in the corner, cool waxed floors,
White curtains softly and continually blown
As the free air moves quietly about the room;
A shelf of books, a table, and the white-washed wall—
These are the dear familiar gods of home,
And here the work of faith can best be done,
The growing tree is green and musical.
For what is happiness but growth in peace,
The timeless sense of time when furniture
Has stood a life’s span in a single place,
And as the air moves, so the old dreams stir
The shining leaves of present happiness?
No one has heard thought or listened to a mind,
But where people have lived in inwardness
The air is charged with blessing and does bless;
Windows look out on mountains and the walls are kind.