On Happiness

Monica Furlow fineartamerica.com

Monica Furlow  fineartamerica.com

She is the long vowel
hiding amid a Czech’s
convoluted consonants

She is the pure breath
of the exhaling leaves
floating above an alder

She is the tug of tide
in slipping-away-sand
on a soul’s naked toes

She is the moon’s light
where she was before
slipping behind clouds

She is the river’s ripple
there where the water
tumbles over a boulder

She is the fragrance
left in the empty room
when love has departed

Happiness is the gentle guest
who arrives unannounced
leaves without an explanation

“All things on earth point home in old October;
sailors to sea, travelers to walls & fences,
hunters to field & hollow & the long voice of the hounds,
the lover to the love he has forsaken.”

~ Thomas Wolfe

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About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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