It's hard to be happy, harder still
to talk about it. Walking together
through these intimate woods, the coins
of light scattered all around us,
it's enough to praise the weather. No need
to disentangle what we feel
from what we think. Or even
to acknowledge the world, not far away,
assembling its important troubles.
The best days, like this one, float
at the borders of our lives, as unremarkable
as light, or the fluttering of leaves.
We know we can't live here.
Perhaps the hermit, having turned his back
on us all, thinks he lives here.
Or the saint, forever trusting
in another life. But we don't envy them.
At evening they must sit down alone
to bless their hunger,
which, perhaps, also makes them happy,
then uneasy, as if they had betrayed
some hard allegiance
to feel this way, the way we feel.