Monday, October 24, 2011

Delusional Peace

The wind is cool and alive with (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) the rustle of the leaves and I look skyward from a cushioned (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) reclining chair on my deck. It couldn't be a (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) more beautiful day and I (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) think of my sons -- how lucky they are to live in a pretty town with honey-golden (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) sun in the fall. Like Coleridge, I revel in their chance to grow up in a (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) place with woods and a stream by which (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) they can run, far away fro the constant sounds of (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) traffic and far away from the (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) screech of the railway line I'd (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) watch from my window as a boy.

My dog lies at my feet and my honeyed green tea steams up (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) into the cool air. A good book waits, so I pick it up and crawl into its (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) pages to escape, enjoying the quiet and the tea and the (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) warmth of fur under my fingers.

Like (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) Coleridge, watching his babe sleep at midnight (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) and listening to the crackle of the dying fire and feeling the green expanses of the world he loves (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) waiting in the frosty night outside of his (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) cottage door (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR).

I drop the book into my lap and rub my (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) temples. The dog barks once  (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) and the wind blows (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) up into a cacophony (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) as the honey-sun curls up under an autumn cloud (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) the (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) color of (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) dishwater (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) and there's (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) something that makes (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) my heart uneasy, but it is on the edge of thought (RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR) . . .

And it stops.

Smooth silence.

Gentle sun in the afternoon chill.

The wind is a gentle, caressing lover again and the cool-warm light cradles my face again and the sound of the withered leaves skittering across the cedar sharpens. The creek exists again, chattering like a thousand children on a thousand distant sleigh-rides in the gully below me. A bird alights on the roof and I hear its little talons scratching on the tiles. Chirpity-chirpity, it yawps into the blue sky.

I draw a deep, cool breath and pick up my book again, relaxed. Peaceful again, I sip my tea and lie back to read, smiling to myself, at once aware and unaware that the gas-powered leaf-blowing machine a few houses away has stopped growling its incessant, demonic challenges to the trees. I'm fooled again into thinking I've found my little corner of Grasmere in a little corner of New Jersey.

I doze, dreaming of daffodils and green, craggy walks among sheep and lakes. I dream up more green-hilled delusions for another coming string of mechanical, cacophonous days.


  1. I'm reminded of a Smiths lyric: "Hopes may rise in the Grasmere...but honeypie, you're not safe here..."

  2. Wow -- I'd forgotten completely about that one. You know, when I was in England, I was amazed that even the Brits didn't know where Grasmere was. If I said "The Lake District," all was cool. But when I said "Grasmere," I got puzzled looks from ticket window attendants.