(The following is actually a new take on something I wrote earlier.)
~ The Place ~
I find that people do not understand
me. They call me a city gal, they think
I’m tough. I was born in a city, but I
grew up in a ‘place.’ It had tall buildings, and broad
streets, and an ice skating rink, and a large hill with a winding river running
below. In winter the hill became a long,
steep slide and we would whee! all
the way down with bottoms glued to pieces of cardboard. In summer the hill was covered in the
sunburst of dandelions that made me – a kid with allergies – both happy and
miserable. The place had an archway, and a sharp
turn to the right, that led to a door.
And behind that door it kept voices and memories, scents and sounds,
touches and tastes, and reality laced with dreams... And that’s where it keeps me now, while a ghost of me wanders
elsewhere.
At the end of light
An invisible hand guides
The sheepish clouds home.
Live for the Love of it,
The Happy Amateur
