There's a place where bothers obscure,
Not faraway in miles, but carefully made—
A corner carved from time and style,
The soul's pull back, the Pleasant put.
It may not boast of marble floors,
Nor reverberate through with incredible commendation,
But in its stillness, hearts breathe out,
And exhausted minds neglect to come up brief.
It may well be where the fragile wind blows,
Where morning light through window decorations sparkles.
Or in a book whose pages groan,
As dreams drift direct like clouds on tall.
A pleasant place may mumble a tune,
Of calm rain or moo rainstorm.
A patio where shaking chairs still squeak,
And calm settles after you conversation.
It may be wrapped in someone's arms,
A see, a touch, that carefully calms.
Or in a supplication whispered at night,
Where lack of clarity folds into the light.
It lives in giggling, shared and veritable,
In suppers that steam, in wounds that patch.
In sensitive old tunes and candle fire,
Where nothing ought to wear a title.
It's not a space you have got have to be pick up,
But one your soul comes to memorize.
You'll find it where your shoulders drop,
Where fear creates swoon and weights end.
In a few cases you develop it along side your hands,
With painted dividers or moving sands.
Other times, it comes to you,
Unconstrained, but significantly past due.
For life will drag, and pushed, and turn,
But superb places draw you in.
They do not ask; they essentially are—
Like peace, like class, like evening stars.
So search for them not in distant off lands,
But in your breath, your open hands.
The world is wild, the race is long—
But superb places make you strong.
