Our country, our state, and some of our towns are gearing up to celebrate America’s 250 birthday and the signing of The Declaration of Independence in 1776. Many of us remember our country’s bicentennial in 1976, an exciting time of Tall Ships, parades and much pomp and circumstance. In Bristol, we have a robust 250 Commission assigned with the task of creating our own celebrations and we are very much looking forward to involving the entire community, with a weekly feature called 250 Words of Joy. The task is to ask yourself, What gives you joy?….and to write 250 words to be featured in the paper. The Phoenix will feature one per week. We are looking for all age groups to tap into their creativity and write an essay, micro short story, poem, or reflections. Let’s get a good start towards what we know will be a memorable celebration in our beautiful town! Please send submissions to cnadalin@eastbaymediagroup.com.

Today a bumblebee!
and yesterday a yellow house
its cheerful self briefly
aureate from the late setting sun.
Soon, but never soon enough,
the intrepid iris, blue as nightfall;
seduction on a stem.

The day breaks bold,
sun rising red, raucous
woken as it was
by a cacophony of crows.
The day unfurls like a flag,
a joyful brass band of hours,
a merry go round of pleasures,
sweet as cotton candy
consumed on dark, hot nights,
insubstantial. Yet sweeter still,
the call of the gull,
the gentle stroke of sea on sand
at nightfall.

Where are they bound, those soft susurrations of summer’s blue-blushed nights;
silent now, as are the sighs
of sea craft gone still.
We hear instead leaves,
scuffling through the streets in
mad dances of joy, breeze-borne,
untethered in the buffeting winds,
flying flagrant and fierce,
in colors of blood and glory.

Across the road, a rabbit, alone,
inhabits this crystalline hour.
Sharp edges erased, and grace,
unbiddable, yet much sought,
-as if hope itself could tear the sky
into these tiny, perfect tatters-
offers a blessing, of sorts. Untamed,
forgiving all trespasses,
while obscuring
the rank sight of rotting leaves and
twisted branches, that mar
quotidian landscapes, defiling our dreams,
such as they are, or
are meant to be.
Today, a purer reality presents;
born before us for a small white while,
as church bells ring out Ode to Joy
and across the road the rabbit
scurries atop new snow in a new year.

-Carol Ward