The Blustery Day

Everyone should have a friend as dear and clever
and sparkling and mischievous and kind hearted as Barb.

And every human should have a tiny corner of the planet
Which, given enough time,
they come to tame as their own.

There are so few places in this world where one feels it is safe to be truly,
authentically and shockingly oneself.
And the list of humans whose company one welcomes
into the intimacies and vulgarities and sacred trust
of such an inner sanctum
is paring down as I am grown older and wiser and know so much better.

So it is, on this late July day in Chilmark
with a blanket of silky morning fog laying in over the meadow
and the cabin window open to the summer island breeze,
that my friend Barbara peeks in
to ask if there might be any little old thing that she could bring to me.

A random act of kindness
visited upon the likes of this crotchety artist
who is anxious about so damn many details
which all seem to disappear
with the wave of her slender hand
and the billowing curtain
on this fine and blustery day.