by: Judith Slater
Four weeks in, quarreling and far
from home, we came to the loneliest place.
A western railroad town. Remember?
I left you at the campsite with greasy pans
and told our children not to follow me.
The dying light had made me desperate.
I broke into a hobbled run, across tracks,
past warehouses with sun-blanked windows
to where a playground shone in a wooded clearing.
Then I was swinging, out over treetops.
I saw myself never going back, yet
whatever breathed in the mute woods
was not another life. The sun sank.
I let the swing die, my toes scuffed earth,
and I was rocked into remembrance
of the girl who had dreamed the life I had.
Through night, dark at the root, I returned to it.
A poem for today about family vacations. I don't get many opportunities to get totally away from my life like this. It takes a great deal of planning. I have two jobs (three if you count playing the pipe organ on weekends). So, I have to make sure to cover my work in three different places. Not an easy task.
I do love being with my wife and kids, away from all my normal distractions. As I said before, it doesn't happen very often.
Saint Marty is going to sit on his balcony for a little while. Read a good book.
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