JOY
by 
Gwen Austin
copyright 1998

Childhood joys abound—
Christmas Eve's glowing tree
with mystery packages for me,
my favorite desserts --
'million dollar fudge,'
rhubarb pie with latticed crust--

A puppy coming when I call his name,
a kitten nestling
in my shoulder and neck hollow,
catching a painted turtle from the pond—

First day of school--
and the last;
fairy fireflies blinking fast,
bumbling tadpoles
and 'I wanna-be…' dreams
hitching on shooting stars--
tally as childhood joys.

Adult joys
are much the same.
Though more experiences
add depth and breadth.

Ave Maria
and Hallelujah Chorus
soaring strains,
haunting and reverberating--

The smell after rain,
iridescent sea-foam green
atop breaking wave,
the first spring trillium
blooming virgin white,
let me know adulthood's all right.

Candlelight-shadow-showers,
wood smoke at play
on a chilly fall day,
Mt. Rainier transformed at dusk
 into vanilla ice cream sundae
slathered with blueberry sauce--

An unexpected letter from a friend,
attention-getting  buzzing
of hungry hummingbirds,
sunsets painted by 
nature's glad
—or mad—
artist—
with color-palette run-amuck--

Rescuing hibernating ladybug
from firewood log,
finding the perfect word
for ripening story or poem,
that sense of well-being 
trom a walk or workout,
arriving home--

A surprise kindness
from a stranger,
discovering a well-turned phrase
while reading a book,
relaxing on a warm water bed
on a cold evening
and immediately falling asleep.
These ring in as adult joys.

Then there's 
waking in the morning
 with that undefined
feeling of well-being—

Or even better yet—

awakening to a day
of new opportunity.

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