Going Home

A hint of autumnal wind,

a pink, blue and red balloon

abandoned by the children

bobbles around the floor,

the only movement now.

Tumult of voices and giggles

a swiftly fading memory

in the sudden stillness

surrounded by suitcases,

yard sale treasures and toys,

boogie- boards, bikes and fly rods,

mementoes of luminous,

halcyon days of summer.

Cottage closes for the season.

Polonius might rant:

All good things must come to an end." Moments of joy are elusive

as catching a sock-eye

salmon by the tail.

If you keep wanting

and wanting something more,

misery can grab you by the throat

when you're not looking

and hurl you into the black mud.

Wheels of the car hum

Dvorak"s melody "Going Home".

A countdown of days

crossed off the calendar

commences:longing

to be on vacation

short circuits being present

for familiar dailiness.

We are blind to the

insidious flimflam that

squelches our capacity to

savor ordinary days

as much as vacation days.

Milton P. Ehrlich