The sun I saw
was not the pale light, fresh,
of this November.
But the gold-bronze rays
of my childhood
spilled down church sanctuary aisles
between two rows of pews
and stained glass windows
pointed in tall triangles, prescient,
to a yellowing carpet,
not yet old but aging,
slipping through my fingers
like my childhood. I see
the warm-blooded smiles
of my grandparents
and the sound of laughter
and hymns played on banjos,
my palms pressed together
in prayer and joy
and love;
it was that sun.
Hard and empurpled, not cold but warm
like amethyst,
won from centuries of being.
Joy is there, in the bones.
The bones are in the earth.
And on the earth, still walking, still waking.
The earth encapsulates, a living sepulcher,
Breathing through roots,
shooting up into sky and sun and rain;
Teasing up the clouds, the vines twirl their fingers;
the oaks shake with laughter;
the house finches twitter with song and story.
Joy is there in the bones,
like a man's scent rich with cigar smoke
and leather and soap and labor and daily cares.
Or the child's hair freshly tossed by wind,
the fingers of grass having run through it,
the dirt having tussled and combed it, with love.
Joy is in the scent of homemade soup,
the simmered potatoes and celery, carried on the wind
next door, over the wisteria-trellised wooden fence.
Joy is in the old book, the old quilt, freshly laundered,
warmed by sun, as the shadows stretch longer,
the chipped tea cup of roses, the hum of everydayness.
Joy is in the tears, the wistful sadness, the questions,
underneath the fears like an aquifer, thrumming with hope.
Joy is in the years, the web of moments, stretched thin,
stretched strong, reinforced with love and beauty;
Joy is life reinforced with triumph and remembrance,
and the constancy of the mature oak, who gracefully weathers ice
and wind and the tumult of election cycles, shedding regret and acorns.
Joy is there, and it's here, right here. It's so close you can't miss it-
Don't miss it!
For joy has always been here for the taking.
Joy is here, now. Joy is in the bones.
I rest on promises of rich soil,
Touching tender nasturtium leaves,
Longing for ghost blooms,
Haunted by familiar regrets
Like leaf-miners eating away at resolve.
I push back my leaf shields,
Lift up naive eagerness to see
If underneath, in shade I may find
Tenacity nurtured, and tested and strong.
I build fences for fortitude
And try to resist the winds of weather shifting,
I shift my own footing, trying for nimbleness
Though often wilting, and think that I,
Like my dog, smell rain in the wind.
Gardening is hard going,
And for all my farming ancestors,
I remind myself that I’m just learning
On sharp chicken wire curves;
On bamboo sticks and twine, I’m just leaning,
Bending myself into submission and humility,
Fussing over tender shoots and pulling weeds.
