The Origin Of Discontent Poem by Sonny Rainshine

A quart mason jar
filled with sprays of lavender
heather and a spike of borage
dominates the rustic kitchen table,
constructed from the 100-year
oak tree that held sentry
over her front porch
until toppled by a windstorm
last July,

Leila gazes at the pinkish-purplish-blueishness
of the bouquet and waits
for The Feeling.
She had bought the farmhouse,
as it was advertised by the realtor,
after she decided the leave New York
to seek the serenity of pastures
and crystaline brooklets,
and to awaken to birdsongs
and the soothing lowing of cows.

But after two years
of country living,
the same city-thoughts
returned and began to whir
around her head, like the bumblebees
in the lavender patch
in the backyard.

Perhaps, she thought,
the origin of discontent
lies not in where we abide,
but in the circumstances
of our lives and the rich
alluvium of our perceptions.

For the first time,
she saw not the bouquet,
but the bouquet’s symmetry
and textured colors;
running her hands
over the rough oaken
surface of the table,
she sensed the spirit
of the fallen tree
and knew for sure
that The Feeling
had come at last.