for Poet Jane Kenyon

‘There’s no accounting for happiness
or the way it turns up like a prodigal.’ 
  Jane Kenyon

.

Dedicated to the proposition
of despair, she was unprepared
for those unsettling moments
when Happiness appeared.

Curled fetal in the mist of nap,
gray afternoon wrapped around her
and in the next moment
with not even a knock on the door,

It was there, grinning
in that irresistible way
that only Happiness has, and she
still fog-minded with sleep

Embraced it as if this time
it would stay, forgetting
in the moment it had a proclivity
for leaving unannounced.

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