Brief as a breath, happiness returns
in silver mornings and silver wings
upon the beach, the sound of waves,
and at night the glow of sand.
It sifts in sunlight through leaves,
lingers like cider in autumn air
or the touch of dry clothes
after cold, damp walks.
Happiness comes again
with Debussy, a darkened room,
except for firelight's molten heart.
Tell me what joy is or ask.
I shall say it is this and more---
a sachet when flowers are gone,
cedar branches bowed with snow.
Sue Scalf
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