Joy

If hope really is the thing with feathers
then joy must be the thing with wings, that lifts
you up over your life, free, untethered,
to see a world others can’t. High on drifts

of cool air, you fly, glide, dive and hover-
you are weightless, ageless, playing a game,
collecting sun memories like nectar.
Joy comes uncalled, it doesn’t know its name.

It appears sometimes when you’re least ready
an uninvited guest at your table
feeding you morsels of brown bread
to build you up. Joy says;  you are able

to be yourself, whatever that is,
no restrictions, no judgement, no limits.