Roads to Joy

The sun’s been shining all day, and the field is drying. In the late afternoon, from the mouldering clothes drying area I cleared a bit of debris left over after an abandoned construction effort (the new generator shelter was finessed better with treated boards and hinges). This simple effort opened the way for me to re-visit ‘the blessings,’ an activity I christened that seemed to cause much mirth in our Writers Group.

The swallows are not yet back, but otherwise the sentiment of this poem feels so timely I must share it again. As I recall the incident, I’d been in a rather foul mood, but then I felt overwhelmed by the wonder of actually being there, in the little glade we’d planted, as the blue sky arced overhead. But apropos of no bad feelings, Carrie suddenly announced, say, it’s time for some blessings, don’t you think?

Hanging out the blessings

In the sun-teased space 
beset by fellside breezes 
the trees a swaying circle
grown from my aunt’s bequest: 
tall cedars break the wind;
for colour poplar, oak, blue spruce;
I hang out different blessings 
on waiting washing lines.

I call them blessings now 
because of an epiphany 
when I was full of grumps 
at being importuned
to do this now and then do that; 
begrudging, but I did because 
the clothes do have to dry;
and yes, the air outside is free.

So there I stood, clothes- 
peg in hand, as flashing 
swallows darted under
nimbus clouds and bright blue sky — 
while life went on, as still it does 
within forgiving houses up and
down the ancient valley — 
coaxing out a smile.