Because what I think they’re saying is happy almost.

Happy new dirt and taller sun. Happy unwinter.

Happy divorce, or degree, or old self you’ve shedded

like a rattlesnake to become. Happy tulips and hunger

and red lipstick at spin class on Wednesday. Happy licking

Crème brûlée off your middle finger. Happy repeating the word No

(no, no, no) like the gorgeous punctuation you’ve fought for.  

Happy more of this, please and you already know my answer.

Happy bright fucking purple. Every fear has a finish line.

Happy rain and petals, and even if it took twenty years

and a few extra dress sizes, happy answering your own prayer.

Peace can be a habit, too. Happy today is it. Is here. So kiss them

already. Tell your dead mom your book just sold.

That your daughter’s laugh sounds like a rock tumbler

smoothing earth into orange calcite. The geese fly

backward through decay and daisies. We trudge through

teeth and spit and promises of one day. Until it arrives.

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