It’s Hard to Explain

Ants will visit every feast.
If the potato salad has mustard and sweet pickles,
I can put up with crawlers.
And if I can have melody and rhythm,
I’ll deal with some noise.
Clouds’ soft, intertwining folds are such,
rain is not a bother.

It’s hard to explain.

Let me say it this way:

Flowers, trees, water, sunlight, earth and stone,
fire, air and cool breezes, song,
sunset trumpets and breaking dawn,
books and poems, fruits and herbs,
ice cream, colors, flags and banners,
birds and dogs, cats and elephants,
young girls and horses, stretching and moving,
swimming and soaring, parades and the smells of
cut grass and baking bread, gardenias and new babies,
the feel of the cat as he falls asleep in my lap,
lemon meringue on my tongue, polished wood
under my fingers, the sound of fountains and falls,
with ten thousand thousand other delights,
make scintillating cascades through my body’s jeweled net,
until I cry out, overcome,

“I love my life.”

Yes, there is pain, grief,
muddy feet and the last breath. 
But they cannot compare 
to the comings and goings 
of the sun and all beneath it.


© 2019 Susanne Donoghue

Run-On Sentence
Ode to the House that Raised Me