Paradise

Based on Musings of a Western New
Yorker in Southern California

by Peter Deuel (November 1963)

The crisp and golden scent of fall
a quilt of colors on our path
The pheasants sound a silly call
their clucks and honking make me laugh

The haze of leaf fires hanging in the air
is comforting like fuzzy blankets
We snuggled in when we were children
now swaddling the countryside
with fragrance everywhere.

We wend our way on thick, green grass
starched and glazed the night before
It crunches sharply underfoot
as we climb the drive to our back door.

The evening meal draws children in from play
to pheasant roast with stale bread stuffing
Bitter fruit and sweet potatoes
and family gathered 'round the table
In the gloaming of the day.

And as you bow your heads to pray
I'm a continent away
On a golden beach in paradise
walking barefoot in the foam
Kissed by sun and my heart's desire
But I'm not home.

A longing overwhelms me now
it's almost more than I can bear
I yearn to ease into your arms
to find some peace and solace there

By now the moles and woodchucks have retired
they leave the birds alone to forage
and I feel as alone as they are
on this crowded beach in paradise
while you nestle by the fire.

Musings of a Western New
Yorker in Southern California

by Peter Deuel

How I miss the crisp, golden smell of Fall
Pheasants half-clucking, half-honking their silly call
in back of the house.
The haze of leaf fires hanging in the air
are comforting fuzzy for annual thumb suckers.
Occasional boom of shotguns, fired not in hatred.
A wide-eyed child anticipation
of bringing home a trophy for the little woman.
The little woman creating a masterpiece
out of cold, dead fowl, stale bread, bitter cranberries
and dirt-encrusted potatoes.
A sharp crunch of thick green grass underfoot,
starched and glazed the night before.
By now the moles and woodchucks have retired,
leaving the birds to forage alone.
We would build a fire and smile,
once more in wonder of the coming freeze.

November 1963

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