If only for a moment, the tireless dictionary does not entirely fulfill the feeling.

It cannot serve to support the brilliance of this eve of respite.

If ever there was an explanation, it could only be lived down rather than explained.

And those things that fill

For myself, this small relief, this rest from the world's unkind sliver of emotion

May very well be the twitch of a cat's whiskers, the breath of steam from a puddle of tea

The things that supply ongoing joy for me includes a small collection of sketches I have

Culminated, or the bubbles rising thinly from boiling coffee, perhaps the smell of new fruit 

Rinds, or mayhaps the long-forgotten granules of sunlight after a harsh

Day, the scent of leaf-remnants inside a novel, the creak of glue in the binding,

Sunlit slivers on a frigid and white-blanketed world when the temperature sinks

Violently,

Or the omnipresent shadow of a falcon above the window screen in the daylight

Just before his sister, night, comes sauntering in shyly and the grin of the moon is paired

With flittering insects and an unholy stillness of time.

And yet, this unholy stillness is another cog in the niche of my mind, congested

With healing and hope, and God's grace and all of the minute wonders

That help me cope...

No, I cannot breathe in or out with a lack of these things.

They make me "happy," so to speak.

They are relief. They are respite.