Another month wends itself to a close. Endings. Beginnings. Autumn. Spring.
So it is we walk, wander, run, scamper, scatter, skip - or fall down, for tiredness or relief, or perhaps even from the release of joyous celebrations.
Let us stop to catch our breaths, yes? And consider, perhaps - the meaning of Bliss.
How I Learned Bliss by Oliver de la Paz
I spied everything. The North Dakota license,
the “Baby on Board” signs, dead raccoons, and deer carcasses.
The Garfields clinging to car windows—the musky traces of old coffee.
I was single-minded in the buzz saw tour I took through
the flatlands of the country to get home. I just wanted to get there.
Never mind the antecedent. I had lost stations miles ago
and was living on cassettes and caffeine. Ahead, brushstrokes
of smoke from annual fires. Only ahead to the last days of summer
and to the dying theme of youth. How pitch-perfect
the tire-on-shoulder sound was to mask the hiss of the tape deck ribbons.
Everything. Perfect. As Wyoming collapses over the car
like a wave. And then another mile marker. Another.
How can I say this more clearly? It was like opening a heavy book,
letting the pages feather themselves and finding a dried flower.
"How I Learned Bliss" from Requiem for the Orchard. Copyright © 2010 by Oliver de la Paz.
Right then, on to Tuesday.
Platform here friends and travelers at the Garden.
Choose a poem. New for old. Old for new. Whatever you wish to share.
Then return in the next few days, to dip and dive into what fellow poets have offered for our reading pleasure.
Comment and share some bliss.
📣And be sure to come back on Wednesday - October 31st - for the next scheduled chat, with Susie and Margaret. It promises to be a treat 🎃