One thinks
that
the holiday
season
has
slipped away
again.
Mindless
Moments
spent
shopping
and
baking
and
tieing
ribbons.
But it
doesn't
come.
The feeling
that
caught
you
once.
the
magic.
Until
a
neighbor.
recovering
from a
lung
transplant.
Whom
you,
without
so
much
as
a
 thought,
dug
canas
up
and
dahliahs
and
said,
"what
else
do you
need
to be
done?"
Shows
up
at your
door
with
season's
warmth.
And
you
bite
into
a
baked
good
filled
with
cardamon
and
are
transported
to
Stockholm
1986.
And
then
you
realize
it
is
a
year's
worth.
Do
good.
Make
the
best of
everything.
Live
simply.
Love
generously.
Leave
the
rest
alone.
Blessed
Christmas.

say good-bye

In the summer of 1979
I slipped away from
human contact.  Days were
spent catching tadpoles,
rummaging around in
abandoned cars left in a
ravine close to our home,
and stripping off my clothes
and sun-bathing in our
neighbor's apple orchard.  It
was then that I realized I
was destined to journey
by myself.  It seemed better
that way.  I could discover
things on my own.  I could
stick them in a pocket
and let them be my secret.
My very own.  The time
drifted by in a glow of
sticky, humid Iowa days.
And here I am some thirty-three years later and I
find it just the same.  Endless
days spent by myself are better.  I can put the moments
in my pocket to remain my
very own.  No one to negate
the joyessness I find.  No
one to lead me away from
my very own discoveries.
No one to eventually
say good-bye.