joy, and other words for time

That morning the light came

through the slanted lines of 

white blinds

making stripe filled shadow patterns

across the leaves of

well watered house plants.

I could have cried

It was so beautiful.

I still can see it,

joy.

Isn’t memory fickle like that,

chopped up with the bright

bliss of ordinariness

the heavy and the light

next to each other

as if they were actually the same.

It meant nothing

shadows, late fall sun low in the sky.

And I had been crying already

over other pains of being.

But that moment stayed, captured

in the archive of time, vivid and mine

Next to the swirl of fear, so close

from far enough away they

might look the same, like one.

As if it is all one wilderness,

inside this life

time.

As if everything could

hold

the same weight.

As if joy could be a trustworthy steward of

memory.