This little poetry feature of mine is long overdue, so here are two stanzas from a four-stanza poem by Jane Kenyon. That’s right—two for the price of one:
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.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
– Jane Kenyon