Happiness . . .

Friday, June 13, 2025. It's Freya's day . . . and gentle Southerlies bring cloud-cover to TulseyTown today and tomorrow. The weatherfeather indicates mid 80's and that traditional Summer 20% chance for on/off rain.

The Nobel laureate poet William Butler Yeats was born on this day in 1865 Dublin, Ireland.

...the Trump administration is vowing to get rid of the democratically elected government of California by using military force. That threat is the definition of a coup. – Heather Cox Richardson, posted last night in Letters From An American.

No Kings Day . . . Two hundred fifty years ago, on June 14, 1775, Americans created an army to defend ourselves from an alien force intent on suppressing our right to home rule and threatening personal security in our homes and workplaces. Tomorrow, on June 14, 2025, we will be demonstrating across this country against our wannabe king and his decision to destroy the constitutional rights that Americans fought long and hard to secure...We will not allow this to happen any more than did our forebears. – Robert Reich.

Happiness

There's just no accounting for happiness,

or the way it turns up like a prodigal

who comes back to the dust at your feet

having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?

You make a feast in honor of what

was lost, and take from its place the finest

garment, which you saved for an occasion

you could not imagine, and you weep night and day

to know that you were not abandoned,

that happiness saved its most extreme form

for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never

knew about, who flies a single-engine plane

onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes

into town, and inquires at every door

until he finds you asleep midafternoon

as you so often are during the unmerciful

hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.

It comes to the woman sweeping the street

with a birch broom, to the child

whose mother has passed out from drink.

It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing

a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,

and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots

in the night.

It even comes to the boulder

in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,

to rain falling on the open sea,

to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

– Jane Kenyon, from Otherwise: New and Selected Poems. Graywolf Press. 1997. Published posthumously.