Joy, if it isn't seeing the morning light filter through a cold window like soft warm hands to magically touch ordinary things to a sparkle, what is it?
Joy, if it isn't a glimpse of the wayside flowers smile in the sun, jiggling and giggling with the passing breeze, what is it?
Joy, if it isn't the sight of the arc of an orange sun cross the rim of the western sky leaving a soft glow, what is it?
Joy – if it isn't in the evening sky, where birds sing returning to their homes – where is it?
Joy, if I seek to seize and possess it…will it stay?
here, there
and not there
an elusive joy
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