this morning, phyllis, my friend and neighbor, brought over flowers from her yard and her new beautiful book of poetry.  she shares the wisdom of getting lost in the zen-like pleasure of ordinary tasks, of living in the present and finding joy in shining moments.

Hello, House

"Hello, House," my double, my self apart,
Visible structure, body, diagram
Of my interior being, life and heart
Disclosing, tangible sign of who I am.

A hundred "homes," a long discouraging quest,
And a patient agent.  The sudden end of a mission:
"Now there's a house," I said, pleased and impressed
By its size and age in intimate recognition.

This was my home, already familiar, plain,
Sturdy and small.  Like me.  Needing fresh paint.
Comfortable.  Airy.  Easy to maintain.
A simple structure.  Nothing cute or quaint.

Cracks in the plaster.  Springy wooden floors.
Linoleum in the kitchen.  Glassed-in shelves.
Sunshine in the bedroom.  A study closed off by doors.
Each room a metephor for my several selves.

Fireplace- a source of passion, warmth and ease.
For collected paintings, plenty of bare wall space.
A garden xeriscaped.  A hive for bees.
It is myself I see.  I fit the place.

phyllis hoge

beautiful, right?