I wish, dearly

that you could store,

save,

your joy.

Beauty, bottled,

packed away, safe for another day

when the gloom,

the dank dark dull

is overwhelming

and the rain

is ceaseless, drumming tired fingers

on your roof

and your hair.

They should make a special locket

one to wear, to hold, always

one to put a sliver of mirth into

laughter, lovingly stored

in a gold heart

on your collarbone.

When you're overwhelmed

with something

so bright, brimming

to the edge, to the very top

(of your soul)

something bubbling

and so very achingly-breakingly

radiant

in its delight,

you should be allowed

to grasp a piece in your fist.

Keep it, clutch it

bask

in its gleeful glow,

sunny and refreshing on your tongue

when your eyes

are heavy

and your feet feel as if

a thousand wishes and a

hundred whispered promises

could not move them.

Let me, would you

let me keep the excess,

just a trickle?

No, they say.

Instead

I have to

preserve it

myself.

I crystallize, capture

the whimsy, the love

singing in my veins

catch-snatch it at the right time,

when the light hits it

just there,

yes, there!

In your hand, hot

hopeful

is a little poem.

She is small

she is not grand, nor is she extravagant.

No matter.

Slip her

into your pocket

to unfold,

creased, well-used

when you're wanting

that sugar-sweet tang

of happiness.