Unless a care be taken to repair,
happiness is a tenuous lacework,
fragile and personal; the past
and present knot, like fate,
into seemingly intricate patterns
where one thread, time-worn
or simply stressed, snaps,
and the whole unravels into dust.
It comes to a question of hugs
or hurts, as if the two could easily
divide along traceable fault lines,
rather than entwine like caduceus.
I am conflicted as to the intent:
to be wary, or to pretend content.
(August 2, 2018)