Thursday, July 11, 2013

Happiness Is A Filter

Rain cannot deter the catbirds from eating. Poetry books stacked too high eventually fall. And deep in the woods, I remember to pray.

Happiness is a filter, in a way. One moves lawn chairs in order to mow. I remember Albany, walking with you in winter, and the used bookstores in which we lingered without talking.

We circle the lake, catching up with an atheist we both know, her latest book. The way we do anything is the way we do everything. Change is the only constant is just another filter.

As are moose antlers. The luminous moss creeping along the north face of fallen pines. Fresh trout fried in almond butter and garlic, washed down with cold beer, while thunder rumbles not so distant.

Mistakes in print are harder to abjure. Open the bible to any page and be guided accordingly? We surrender too often - to the wrong parties - and we know it and so do they.

The motel in Vermont calls as always. The green mountains in which I was born before relocating south - certainly against my will. Family, too, is a decision.

Here and there one kneels. And here and there one sings.

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