"this is the hardest-earned happy hour"
as they hurried by me in the summer rain.
It wasn't heavy rain but still, no doubt,
a threat to Tuesday's polish on their leather shoes.
The phrasing struck me.
How many happy hours have been earned, and at what price?
I thought of countless other lives, less easy,
the cost of their brief happinesses.
Perhaps I am unfair. Joy isn't earned.
Like summer rain it falls on anyone
with a hand to cup or an ear to hear
or a warm skin to prickle with delight.
I feel suddenly tender toward that thirsty boy,
wilting already, so early in the week.
It's not his fault that desert plants must know
how to make every
drop
how to make every
drop
count.
