Muse of Happiness, The

American Poetry Review, The, Jan/Feb 2001 by Gluck, Louise

The windows shut, the sun rising.

Sounds of a few birds;

the garden filmed with a light moisture.

And the insecurity of great hope

suddenly gone.

And the heart still alert.

And a thousand small hopes stirring,

not new but newly acknowledged.

Affection, dinner with friends.

And the structure of certain

adult tasks.

The house clean, silent.

The trash not needing to be taken out.

It is a kingdom, not an act of imagination:

and still very early,

the white buds of the penstemon open.

Is it possible we have finally paid

bitterly enough?

That sacrifice is not to be required,

that anxiety and terror have been judged sufficient?

A squirrel racing along the telephone wire,

a crust of bread in its mouth.

And darkness delayed by the season.

So that it seems

part of a great gift

not to be feared any longer.

The day unfurling, but very gradually, a solitude

not to be feared, the changes

faint, barely perceived--

The penstemon open.

The likelihood

of seeing it through to the end.