“If this ain’t nice, I don’t know what is.”
It’s drizzling outside in the dark,
so I put on Otis Redding.
I make a sound,
like the sweet hush on a record player.
A pot of potatoes, smooth as cream bubbles
on the stove and the apple pie glistens in the oven.
My hands pour sweet tea into a mason jar.
The jar I use for wild flowers and flour and measuring cups
of sweet happiness.
It’s filled to the brim this time.
If I could capture moments like lightning bugs in tin cans,
this moment would buzz all night,
like a honeybee in summer time.
Happiness don’t last forever
but when it happens, its like a candle on a windowsill.
