It was early May, I think <br />a moment of lilac or dogwood <br />when so many promises are made <br />it hardly matters if a few are broken. <br />My mother and father still hovered <br />in the background, part of the scenery <br />like the houses I had grown up in, <br />and if they would be torn down later <br />that was something I knew <br />but didn't believe. Our children were asleep <br />or playing, the youngest as new <br />as the new smell of the lilacs, <br />and how could I have guessed <br />their roots were shallow <br />and would be easily transplanted. <br />I didn't even guess that I was happy. <br />The small irritations that are like salt <br />on melon were what I dwelt on, <br />though in truth they simply <br />made the fruit taste sweeter. <br />So we sat on the porch <br />in the cool morning, sipping <br />hot coffee. Behind the news of the day-- <br />strikes and small wars, a fire somewhere-- <br />I could see the top of your dark head <br />and thought not of public conflagrations <br />but of how it would feel on my bare shoulder. <br />If someone could stop the camera then... <br />if someone could only stop the camera <br />and ask me: are you happy? <br />perhaps I would have noticed <br />how the morning shone in the reflected <br />color of lilac. Yes, I might have said <br />and offered a steaming cup of coffee.<br /><br />Linda Pastan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-happiest-day/
