Happiness


Happiness is not proud. She is neither guile nor disdain. At times she's indefinable, as subtle as Vizcaya winds. I've seen her plunge like rain into the lives of bewildering strangers. I’ve watched her from afar crack the loins of despair.

She is possibility, the lanky tree supplying a sector of shade. She’s the girl folding her limbs like pretzels on a park bench, the three-year-old boy frolicking about the yard. She is an avalanche of hope, bewilderment. She is the constant over sorrow, the point where light commence.

Nothing can store her from the needs of men. No entity can emulate her veracity. Her bliss eclipses the coldest of hearts. For where she lives, there is no part for anger, no hope for dismay.



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