May joy pursue you, undeterred by doubt,
unswayed by downturned eyes
or disappointed heart.
May it press in,
as if it saw the end,
as if each failure were the start
of something new.
May joy stand, patient, by the door,
while you, reluctant, wait on pain,
play silent host to fear and also grief.
May it be there to enter when you ask it,
take an adjacent chair,
leave space for tears,
and be content in nearness.
May joy strike down in light shafts after rain;
drift in quiet kitchens, in the hiss of escaped steam;
wander with you when you go
star seeking in blue evening fields;
and catch you, flickering, in the eyes of friends.
May joy bloom out in corners of your mind still
unexplored, in wild future places of yet knowing,
sharp to flood perception, deep and warm.
May, even when it ebbs, still everywhere
its scent, like lavender, linger in the air.
© 2018 Deborah King