I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
just a twinge every now and then
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
The fog is in and invites a change of mood. It is cold and I am bundled and my eyes rest in the soft, gray light.
My book group is going to Point Reyes this weekend. The cold and fog may alter our plans, and yet, we will still hike, talk, read, feast, and our reservation at Nick's Cove for dinner Saturday night is firm. Tonight is a pot luck, and I realize now the hot tub will feel more welcoming than it would have in the heat.
The greens are greener in the fog. All is peace and love.
Paradise is not a place
where we are going.
It is a place
where we are from.
We can go there
at any time.
It is our beliefs
that lock us in our hell.
It is the sacredness of this moment
that is the key to freedom.
—John Squadra, from This Ecstasy
The wind, one brilliant day, called.
I'm off to Point Reyes. Hooray!!