Joy

Comes softly

like drops pattering on a beach,

or breeze in an abandoned tree

that you will love as you tend it

and fertilize its roots and birth,

loose children to inhabit its branches

and run in its grass

giving it song once again.

Joy

is the first-soft-clapping of the hundreds,

then thousands, of hands whose rhythm and praise

mark the entry of your boat, storm-tossed,

to harbor, where it rests, untouched by waves,

healed by gentle winds

and the pure waters

always.

Joy

is children on a pleasant winter day,

friends talking,

an old beech smiling with new leaves;

all the rainbow colors,

and the fallow grass that you know

will glisten life again:

the promise of spring.

Ohio Moon

Why the title, you may ask.  So have I, and so did my wife, but she asked less than the others I proposed, such as Cappi Communal, which I intended as a profound statement on a balanced political philosophy, but for which she thought I merely forgot the "r" in Cappi.  I tried several other titles on Google, but all taken, alas.  Ohio Moon, though not ideal is a pretty good choice, as for me it is a image from my seeking years, those four after high school, when I gradually lost more and more of my moorings and peace, and often found myself gazing out at a round Ohio moon beside the Muskingum River while on Thanksgiving break at my Looney Tunes loving, sauerkraut-making, Olds-driving and loud laughing Grandma's.  So, Ohio Moon it is, and may these pages be filled with musings and melodies of the continued journey.  Come along for the ride!