joy,
the book fairs
that brought
new worlds
to the closed box;
the money,
given, to buy
two novels.
joy,
the desk
facing the wall
and diaries
to write in.
joy,
the black pens.
joy,
the playground
with the swings
and evening air
tucking wild hair
behind my ears.
joy,
the slides,
the trees,
the gravel.
joy,
the wet grass
near the ducks
at central park.
joy,
the racks
in the kitchen
that held
the bowls
i knew.
joy,
the proxy teacher
who became
the first adult
to love my
silly poetry.
joy,
the balcony
that opened
for fresh air.
joy,
the silent sky
on the silent
walks home.
joy,
the often
empty roads.
joy,
the wrists
of the caretaker
who oiled my hair.
her uncontained love
as she kissed my cheeks,
cooked my meals,
watched me eat,
changed my sheets,
taught me
— raised me.
joy,
the soft existence
and companionship
of my two sisters.
joy,
the people
who came
and cradled me
and my big life
without hesitation;
comforted me
with their
friendship
and compassion
and tea.
joy,
the loved ones.
joy,
the growing,
the learning,
the loving.
oh such joy,
the mother
in the world
around me.
oh such joy,
the nurture
in everything.