Joy is in the Bones

 

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.