Why do poets always talk about the ocean's waves,
about their single file march to shore,
and yet never talk about my grandmother's farts,
which arrive in time, one after the other, with equal
     regularity?

Are these poets too holy to comment on anything
less than nature's flashiest gestures?
Are we going to spend another millenia searching
for meaning in sunsets and waterfalls?

Or will we finally turn our ear to Grammy's ****
and away from all that pretty stuff,
and hear that foul, muted trumpet sing,
marking the end of an era?

Filled with delight.
There were no obvious causes.
Around me, it felt like joy was everywhere.
Life seemed straightforward for a moment.
I know these feelings are ephemeral, though, deep down.
But it is difficult to understand why we sometimes feel such jolts of emotion.