Prose and poetry are crutches against time--

Reminders left lying about, scattered,

Of childhoods colored with the glamour of naive glasses or the

Storms that threatened the fragile walls of our tender hearts--

Even though we know time passes no matter where our minds are caught.

Happiness shouldn’t be a hard thing. After all, it’s everywhere—in the way summer storms smell, in the feel of dough beneath my hands, in the purr of a cat upon my lap or in the crook of my neck. And there’s more--I love my wind chime and my candles, I love when the trees bud and the grass turns green, I love singing in the shower, I love crying at sad movies and books. I love many things, but they don’t need me. And when I wake every morning, I can’t really see how I matter at all.