With sadness there is something to rub against,
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up,
something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs or change.
But happiness floats.
It doesn’t need you to hold it down.
It doesn’t need anything.
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,
and disappears when it wants to.
You are happy either way.
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house
and now live over a quarry of noise and dust
cannot make you unhappy.
Everything has a life of its own,
it too could wake up filled with possibilities
of coffee cake and ripe peaches,
and love even the floor which needs to be swept,
the soiled linens and scratched records…
Since there is no place large enough
to contain so much happiness,
you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
into everything you touch. You are not responsible.
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,
and in that way, be known.
I didn’t think I’d have time to post anything this morning…but, then, I found myself nominated for the Sunshine Award by David Kanigan ~ http://davidkanigan.com/2013/03/27/paying-it-forward-with-sunshine/. So, I felt compelled to search through my photos for a bit of California sunshine to express my thanks for this award. I’m not good at following all the rules of these awards, and so this is simply acknowledgement of David’s kindness on this day. If you haven’t looked at David’s blog before, please take a look. I promise, you won’t be sorry! There aren’t enough words to express how grateful I am, and I know a lot of other people are as well…for David’s daily doses of inspiration, amusement, humor, wisdom, and so many things just plain good. 🙂
that means not everyone.
Not even most of them, only a few.
Not counting school, where you have to,
and poets themselves,
you might end up with two per thousand.
but then, you can like chicken noodle soup,
or compliments, or the color blue,
your old scarf,
your own way,
petting the dog.
but what is poetry, anyway?
More than one rickety answer
has tumbled since that question first was raised.
But I just keep on not knowing, and I cling to that
like a redemptive handrail.
~~ Wislawa Szymborska ~~