Sailing

The woods closes in. The path to the cabin in late afternoon is a tunnel through green under a low sky, insular, hushed, and confirming.

Yes, this world contains heaven, when we seek it out.

We build a fire in the grate. A favorite book feels fine in the hand, the weight of a life's work, the heft of a man's dreams, disappointments, and passions. Yeats has always thrilled us, especially beside the fire.

     That is no country for old men. The young
     In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
     – Those dying generations – at their song,
     The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
     Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
     Whatever is begotten, born and dies...

Just right for rocking with our feet upon the hearth, our pantlegs steaming, and the rain beginning again on the roof.

If you wish to do a little sailing to Byzantium, spend a day beyond the news and out of reach. We recommend it.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved