Dwelling in Delight

The majestic maple’s
changing colours
shout look at me
in a way that makes it
impossible not to grin
even as some docile
despair gathers,
like old socks,
around the ankles.

Where the house meets
the dirt, some wriggling
red worms line up
in the dappled yellow
of a new day.
This abode holds
what matters most
and ignores the barking
coming from the side yard.

Wayward joy contains
the realness of things,
but holds the kindling
lightly so oxygen can
whisper to the flame
resist — be stubborn
in your gladness.
The wind throws a fit,
but this domicile stands.

In the before now,
this home was enveloped
by clouded uncertainty.
Even when the sky sang
the lapis of a lagoon,
the discordant melody fell flat,
tumbled in one ear,
out through the lungs.
But today, this dwelling shines.

In childhood, mirth and misery
appeared as angry antonyms
on the playground and on Looney Tunes.
But they’ve always lived in the
same house, just different floors.
Even when life sings a sorrowful
song, don’t be confused.
Turn on the lights and
study delight. Do this.