by

Happiness

2.26.19

Happiness

Some days, happiness is the sunlight coming through the trees,
warming her face
like the caress of a lover.

Other days, happiness evades her like water through her fingers.

What things she thinks will bring her joy, turn out not
to be things.

She wrings her hands, the sorrow seeping in like moonlight beneath the gap in the curtain and the windowsill,
after she has closed it.

Where is the edge of happiness now? She wants to pull it closer and throw it over her like a blanket, to ward off the cold displeasure of the world.

When she was young, happiness was loud and embroidered with flowers and bunnies and butterflies.

But now she is older, she knows that
happiness is really
a warm flannel shawl, wrapped around her shoulders, a cup of coffee
sheltered between her hands,
sipped in peace
outside,
with that sunlight
caressing her face.

by

Once and Future

The oldest person I know

takes her tea by the window.

She sits and remembers.

Outside the window, birds gather at the feeder.

She hums a tune and watches

their wings

beat the time

Sipping her tea

She studies the lines on the back of her hands as if they were

a roadmap to the past.

Her cell phone buzzes on the table beside her

She answers, greeting her granddaughters’s plans with affection.

Looking to the future, not worried about where she’s been.