Strokes of Luck

 

I drove my neighbour to the CoOp and we made it there and back right between two rainfalls.

This week, I am watching the wild geese flying over, so heartened by the honking of their homeward song.

Yesterday afternoon, looking up and out my big window, I saw a heron fly over, looking for all the world like a skinny matron, her purse clutched under her wing, off to go shopping in the sky.

I have a stack of books waiting to be read these rainy afternoons. And cups of tea awaiting sweetener from my less-than-shiny spoons.

I have the gift of being grateful for small things, which makes my life seem very rich indeed.

At writers' group, when they asked for a poem, the one I found folded up in the back of my journal was one that they liked. 

The winter waves are silvery grey at the shore, pounding in like wild horses, so loud their thundering roar.

Memories that once were painful are now softened by the wisdom of my years, shining golden the time when both the world and I were young and all our songs were up ahead, still waiting to be sung.

I have lived 75 years on the planet and am still here tapping at the keys. I am quite pleased.

I have lived enough stories that, if I tell them all, it will take several books and the rest of my life. 

My spirit guides were whispering to me all the way along. They told me everything would be all right. And they were never wrong.

Inspired by "Fifteen Strokes of Luck" by Ellery Akers

Here's a good quote by Mary Karr: Poetry is when you start in a sacred place and then get ziplined to something truer.