by Jane Kenyon
There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
(the rest of the poem is at Poetry Foundation)
I was looking for a poem about staying late at work until my desk was completely. cleaned. off. Or one about what it feels like to (finally) look up and see different stuff on the big bulletin board in the classroom, or one about that feeling when I remembered that my students have a guidance lesson, (which means I have the gift of time). I needed a poem about turning a corner and feeling like maybe, just maybe, the worst was behind us for a little while.
You can see what I found. It's a poem about happiness. That scoundrel happiness who decided to mosey on back, and who we (as always) welcome with open arms.
The round up this week is at Random Noodling.