Perhaps, happiness is an aggregate;
moments of bliss embedded in moments
like bits of chocolate in fresh baked cookies,
and all we lack is a cold glass of milk.
Perhaps, the promise religion provides
is but venal desire disguised as hope;
the apple is always just out of reach,
it’s dewy flesh untouched by morning light.
Our jumbled happenstance is rewoven
each day into a more palatable
tale, where the hero becomes a fool
to the children gathered around him
on the days he works in the garden
pruning bits of his life as if roses.
(February 16, 2024)
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