Poem

When happiness makes its rounds
back to me again, I lean into it.
I don’t mean marginally happy.
I mean the kind of joy that stops
you in your tracks and halts
any action that was moments
ago needed, for one thing, or another.
And there you stand, sit, or lay,
looking at a blade of grass with
the sun shinning and the wind
blowing just enough to whisper
your name as you tilt your head
in an attempt to catch the message.

-M. Taggart