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Rated: 13+ · Book · Personal · #982524
Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation.
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L'aura del campo

'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos'
♣ Federico García Lorca ♣


Higgins Street Bridge, April 25th 2009, Missoula, Montana


L'aura del campo. A breeze in the meadow. So it began the last day of Spring, 2005; on the 16th day of the month of Light of the year 162. This is a supplement to my daily journal written to a friend, my muse; notes I do not share. Here I will share what the breeze has whispered to me.

PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS! I L*Flower2*V*Flower2* COMMENTS!

On a practical note, in answer to your questions:

Gifts from NOVAcatmando kiyasama alfred booth, wanbli ska ransomme Iowegian Skye

Merit Badge in Reviewing [Click For More Info] For your support and suggestions on my haiku "Lone Poinsettia" which took second place in the contest and will be published. Thanks for helping make it a winning poem! Merit Badge in Nano Winner [Click For More Info] CONGRATULATIONS on your achievement! *^*Bigsmile*^* Merit Badge in Reviewing [Click For More Info] For help finding a title for my first chapbook. We're not there yet, but your ideas are always interesting.
Merit Badge in Funny [Click For More Info] Merit Badge in Friendship [Click For More Info] Thanks for being my friend. Hugz! grannym Merit Badge in Appreciation [Click For More Info] For brightening my day with your delightful offerings ~ Thank you so much! *^*Heart*^*


IN MEMORIUM

VerySara

passed away November 12, 2005

Please visit her port to read her poems and her writings.
More suggested links:

Wheat fields along Route 56 in SW Kansas, July 2004.
These pictures rotate.



 Kåre *Leaf5* Enga
~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go.
~ Elizabeth Bishop,
The Fish
April 3, 2019 at 7:04pm
April 3, 2019 at 7:04pm
#955725
Time to move on

And this
is where you were born,
a place of deep snows
and deeper secrets,
a cocoon
that guarded your trust
until squeezed out
leaving only a husk.

And this
is the place you fled to
wide open grasslands
and welcoming arms
where sunshine cleansed
dark corners of webs,
those places you tried
to keep to yourself.

And then you left...
returned to the confines
of childhood closets,
stuck in an attic
of old memories
and ghosts
the past a trap
at every footfall
a place where traumas
never gave up

Once more you fled
to a place of odd melodies,
old hills that sang
with a twang
and the soft mutter
of crayfish,
the flutter
of scissor tailed flycatchers
catching your eye

And now
you live in a place
where grizzlies
yodel between mountains
and snow melts
to impregnate a river
each spring
where winter's but a ghastly pall
where after the scorch of summer
smoke chokes lungs
come fall.

And you dream
of a place
with open prairie
and open hearts
where green hurts the eyes
where blackbirds squawk
and elderberries ripen in ditches,
where bells ring out
and choirs sing
in four part harmony
beckoning you home.

Know
that you know
what place you need to be.
Know
that here
isn't that place.
It's time to move on.

© Kåre Enga [176.19] (3.avril.2019)

For the Dew Drop Inn prompt: place.
100.795


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