Archive
04/18/12
Mysteries, Surprises, and Secrets
My mind blindfolded all the winding drive out, from St. Louis, To mystery's, surprise's, secret's getaway destination, I can't guess where you're transporting me.
All I can do is put myself inside the spirit inside your eyes And acquiesce, trusting that wherever we're headed Will doubtless be the best someplace I've never ever been.
35 miles, 45 minutes, 55 of my "Where are we goings?"s later, We arrive in the diminutive village of Augusta, Above the Missouri River's sandstone-bluffed bottom land,
Park alongside the original black cast-iron fence Surrounding the 1885 H. S. Clay House, A magically entrancing Victorian bed-and-breakfast,
Replete with the mystique of nineteenth-century settlers Who found home in this lush, green, hilly region Because it reminded them of the Rhineland they'd left behind.
For an evening, this fantastically anachronistic house is all ours — Its antique scrimshaw whale teeth, maps, photographs, Books, cigar-store Indian, carousel horse, sleigh bells, candles —
A place where the more we gaze, the more it gazes back, As we celebrate my seventy-first birthday, So completely outside of time, amidst history's presence.
Now, sheltered in the ten-windowed Turret Suite's tester bed, You and I realize we crave mysteries, surprises, and secrets As much as we desire the certainty of our changing love.
04/18/12
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