My mother says, “you sound happier on the phone than I’ve heard you in a long time,”
So I start to write a poem about joy,
But I falter,
Because happiness is best served in small words and in sunny days,
In coming home dirty and going to sleep content,
In cups of tea, in chocolate covered almonds,
In plans for the future and in the plants that line my windowsill, always stretching toward the light –
Today I am better than okay, and that is all right.
tonight i am not scared to grow up
for a long time,
i was afraid to grow up.
that just as the grass and the sunflowers and the cattails grow,
strong and tall and beautiful
So do I.
There is a small patchwork journal in my lap,
I climb flights of stairs to reach the roof.
The sky is is the kind of blue only poets see today,
The cherry blossoms, the rough tiles under my feet.
Hearts of wood and water.
These are things worth fighting for.
There is a moment,
When the lights dim and then burn.
I stand and I hold my breath,
The surge of bass and drums and life is approaching.
Fifty times over, and every time still feels like the first.