Happiness


Happiness

There’s just no accounting for happiness,

or the way it turns up like a prodigal

who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never

knew about, who flies a single-engine plane

onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes

into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

– Jane Kenyon


Si-au lasat amprenta↓


This Article Has 1 Comment
  1. TheDreamer says:

    Too bad happiness comes so rarely and goes in the same way,faster.

    But a poem about happiness can make your heart be in peace, a few moments, and that's a positive thing, right?

    Have a beautiful day, Roxanebig grin!
    kiss

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