On the Nature of Happiness

I know happiness must taste different
than the dry mouth of desperation.
Some sweet concoction, dripping
warm and golden on the tongue.
Happiness must have a different forecast

from the day's first fall of sadness.
I believe happiness has a texture,
not raised but smooth and slippery
as Venetian glass. It seems that joy
would logically create a vibrant,

bubbling brew of voices and happenings,
but in truth I believe it is a transparent,
liquid legato of silence. That weightless,
eerie quiet one experiences when
she suddenly finds herself content

within her own skin. Not needing anyone
to make her feel complete or whole,
knowing that inside her lies
all the answers to all the questions
she has ever asked, all the love

and tenderness she has ever ached for.
Perhaps a light lullaby of rain
like the tinkling of piano keys
against the echoes of tears which have
finally cessated their song. Just perhaps,

an impossibly faint, evanescent,
effluent music, like the tugging
of a smile at the corners or her mouth.