Dostoevsky says it’s hard to find a sister if God hasn’t given you one. I guess I got lucky, so this poem is for her.
(Please see: Hiraeth pronunciation)
hiraeth
jane says
there are five seasons
in everyone’s heart
all interspersed with hiraeth.
a welsh word
with no direct translation.
a homesickness,
yearning,
longing for something
that is not attainable.
kind of like the blues.
blue like daydreams,
blue in kentucky,
blue for losing
an ideal that
never existed.
i told jane
i know this
silver thread
that connects
the sorrows of
our pining hearts.
everything she’s said
i’ve lost before.
(Crater Lake, Oregon – October 2010)
