In the past I often tried to imagine I was getting over my problems. "Joy" is just one of many poems where I kid myself into believing I am making a positive step forward. I'm not but the kidding was just part of the big mess. The passing of time was my greatest therapist. Sad souls, take note.

Is it the moss grown green

on settled stones, the glaze of honeysuckle gold

dragoning a lazy heath, moist campions?


It is the pulse,

the sleepy corner-stone, the anchorage, the hope.

What I imagine to begin is unresolved.


Only to have begun this voluntary love,

this energy, this seeding, whether trapped or free,

concerns me now, to love this love.


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