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A vacation poem. What a sweet relief it is to be on break, to have my girlies here with me to bake cinnamon rolls and make ice cream, and yes, on vacation that can be dinner.

It is also a huge relief just to be home, at our house with the creek, watching all the Christmas movies and taking naps under the tree. All my cares have vanished, suddenly.

I’m going to poem about that and then get to wrapping. I do wish it would stop raining and turn to snow. Tomorrow, the report says.

To the Eddy

The trees list, and the water pushes up through the rock. The creek is roaring, and continues to roar. With perpetual motion, as we continue this games, safe here in our mountain home, safe at the base of this mountain, safe but not leaking, we take luxury in this grand lounge. I feel remote and sheltered by needles, pine and cedar, all rural, alone and secure. This is the sound of my art, the tapping of letters, the quicksand knowledge of water and where to step when the rocks are wet and shiny with lichen. This is when the landscape speaks and brews up colors to assault the eyes, and this is the living body, of water, that objects to us, the human, this is the stream that carries us, dead and weightless, to the eddy.

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Happy Friday, poemies. I’m glad this is done early, so I can get to the baking of rolls and the making of ice-cream.  Happy hols, friends.

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