Saturday, April 11, 2015

The World According to Bella and A Spring Poem

End of the Line
I thought the trip from Santa Fe to MN would never end. It was two very long days being in the car with not much to do. Time passed slowly for me. The only things to do were look out the window which after awhile became BORING, napping, checking on Mr. C 's driving making sure we were headed in the right direction and occasional rest stops. 
We've been gone what seemed like forever though Mrs. S said it was only 68 days. I'm worried all my buddies may have forgotten me when I've got so many stories to tell; like the time I scared off the coyote and javelinas dragging Mr. C to safety, when we climbed up a very steep mountain path on a very hot day, everyday laying outside in the sun working on my tan but keeping a watchful eye on desert creatures, all the fun field trips and of course all the treats Mr. C and Mrs. S 's company brought for me. 
Even though most was all fun I was soooooooo happy to be home. Mr. C and Mrs S said I deserved a 10+ for being such a great traveler on this trip.
In my excitement I almost knocked Mrs. S over trying to be the first in the house. I ran and ran and ran around in and out of each room and checking out all my stuff I had left behind. The next day I was up extra early. I didn't even want breakfast. I just wanted to get to the park. And what a glorious time I had being what Mr. C said was a bit crazy. Running around chasing tennis balls, swimming in the lake (did not care that the water was cold) and just playing with Mulligan who DID not forget me. Oh, what happy day!   
I hope we are here for good, the weather doesn't get too cold as I left a lot of my fur coat out West hoping spring in MN would be warm.   
Love, Bella
by Mary Oliver 

is the instructor, 
We need no other.

Guess what I am,
He says in his 
incomparably lovely

young-man voice.
Because I love the world
I think of grass.

I think of leaves  
and the bold sun, 
I think of the rushes

in the black marshes
just coming back
from under the pure white

and now finally melting 
stubs of snow.
Whatever we know or don't know

leads us to say:
Teacher, what do you mean?
But faith is still there, and silent.

Then he who owns
the incomparable voice
suddenly flows upward

and out of the room
and I follow
obedient and happy.

Of course I am thinking
the Lord was once young
and will never in fact be old.

And who else could be, who goes off
down the green path,
carrying his sandals, and singing?  


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