joy

The morning air is chilly, the pipe full of Manhattan Twilight tobacco. I wonder for a few moments about the future. The training is going well. No cigarettes, no drinking, miss my people. The day beckons on. A splinter of light in the black. The rains washing the old soul. Nourishing it like a meal of peasant food. Often ignored for more hearty repast. This simple act of consummation. Gives me some elusive hope. The codes of chivalry and bushido mention these moments of clarity of purpose. The fianna understand in the rhyme there is a subtle perfection. She’s got a way, the way is in the geometry of shapes, the equation in the improvisation of a well turned phrase. Words are numbers, numbers are words, and my blessed rain always brings me back to her. In the quiet secret moments. When there is only me smiling as my laughter dances with raindrops. I find her. Joy.