ANOTHER CLOUDY WEDNESDAY. HOW ABOUT SOME POETRY?
Happiness is Knowing Your Place and Purpose We are witnesses to what is. Without us there is no one to appreciate creation, for a rock does not admire the mountain, nor does the stream dream of the ocean. The dying leaf kisses the tree goodbye but cannot proclaim the majesty of the oak. The Sequoia has no eyes to see itself grow tall. But we? We admire the silk worm’s thread, the boll of cotton on the stalk, the strength of flax, and weave our cloth of many colors in homage to mountains, oceans and trees, press grapes and coffee beans and oranges, and chocolate; We drink and read the teas leaves and every sip savored sings hail! Hail to vibrant genes stuffed inside our jeans. Our every breath is needed to toast the glory of being, of gratitude for the next that keeps us living. That is our purpose, and our home is earth. Relocation America’s spacious desert skies that linger in my eyes. When urban winter descends, I lament the terminus of my wanderlust is a green pallet instead of rust, and verdant hills that roll instead of red rocks that jut from barren landscapes. “You’d be happier in a trailer on the Valley Slabs,” my son said, and he spoke the truth about the place where Okies and Arkies encamped near the Salton Sea. I long to be warm, hear God’s voice in the silence. What need have I of others who don’t share my love of a world without fences and freeways? As long as I have water, sun, and peanut butter sandwiches, food for the cat, and books for the soul, I’d be content to die and lie with parched bones, my ashes scattered in a place that mattered to the Quechan and Cahuilla, food for buzzards, instead of ashes in a flowered urn. The Invitation to Princeton, Texas, in 2027. We three will reminisce about childhoods, how wonderful to be young, and how we danced on weekends. Except she believes you live in Dallas, and never leaves her home. She remembers little or reality – neither of us got birthday cards this year. She tells me she is happier than she’s ever been, repeats again how she met her husband who is now her protector. In her voice I her a lilt. Again, she brags he cooks and cleans, while she sits in the sun on the patio. She’s so easy to love. He is definitely a hero. Does he worry he’ll die first? Will the world be good to her? Will she forget him when he’s gone? Who am I, she asks again. She thanks me for calling. She remembers what never happened as though it were yesterday. As for trip to Providence, don’t ready the guest room yet. She won’t be me coming in ’27, but don’t let it break your heart. Seventy years have passed and we two can reminisce about our childhoods, how wonderful to be young, and how we danced on weekends.