A Winter Retreat (on storiesspace.com)

hours of road monotony

the GPS, a self-imposed dictatorship

tired, bored, no more beauty in the snow…

 

then

a private gateway;

a much anticipated spectacle:

The Inn.

 

A compelling magnificence.

No need for a color, a shade, or hue;

a winter embrace of splendor;

the smolder of her fireplace:

 

I feel  home.

 

Spacious beyond the eye’s capacity,

not at all an inn of limits;  

high-risers’ luxury at hand;

many may deem impersonal,

out of futile habit:

This, a B&B?

 

I feel home.

 

Eloquent, the host; the hostess: of elegance.

The puppy –acts like one yet outsizes me.

Struck by grave illness, the eldest feline

each night, in my Victorian space.

She, too, will break hearts, never to replace the pieces.

Just like my Russian Blue, Duman.

 

A mere three days’ span

filled with seeing

listening

inhaling

that authentic self

outside its rushed and rushing

fragmented and fragmenting

judged and judging

tested and testing

shell-self.

 

I am home.

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