Monday, July 17, 2017

Something is Missing, Sam Traten

Something is Missing
by Sam Traten

Sound sleep followed a morning in the garden, heavy work with fork and spade, sparring with rose thorns for their scented bloom, and an afternoon of never caught-up housecleaning. A glass of red wine and a plate of garlicked mussels conclude the evening.

The bed never bows, for the body is left behind. Only the spirit remains to dream. The dream is soon forgotten but its generous good feeling remains. I wish sleep ease could be explained by clear conscience, but that would be untruth. My failures stand in historical squadrons, ‘though sedated.

Absent, too, is a sense of the moment this morning on awakening. Chirping wrens solve that want in an instant. Things need doing. Doing restores the day’s purpose. But it is Sunday, a day of rest. What’s needed is the presence of activity not labeled --work.

I twist concepts and turn lack of toil into abundance of pleasure and delight. I write and set off to a meet of friends not burdened with agenda other than good, vacant of self-interest. Lovers of words, poets and philosophers of truth and beauty.

Missing is the dust of the street. Steel City has been dusted.


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