Of Some Consequence

Mercedes Lawry

The cut glass vase sat empty for a week
before I filled it with wildflowers.
That was a moment of joy.
I unplugged the city for a few hours.
I wept at the door of a church I could not enter.
I crawled over a wooden fence in a field
where two horses grazed and ignored me. Suddenly I had a decent voice and I sang.
I sang for no one and it went well.
I climbed up the ladder and my breathing remained even.
The morning clouds were so low I could ruffle them
like soapsuds and that was a moment of joy.
I carried a pile of books to the end of the road
and left them for someone seeking wisdom.
I considered alternate spellings of several words
and came to no conclusions.
I finally realized I was hopeless at juggling.
I mourned salt.
I made a pile of plates out in the backyard,
flattering the moon.
I mapped the Martian canals.
I reread the letters from my 1964 pen-pal in Stuttgart.
I spoke volumes to the crows and they replied.
We were on the same page. That was a moment of joy.
Feeling generous, I gave the fish the day off and they were grateful.
I found a character witness wandering in the morning mist
and fed her breakfast.
I cried for a long, long time and ended the drought.
I introduced the queen of diamonds to the jack of spades and all hell broke loose. 
I fulfilled a promise I made in another lifetime.
I fell in love and I stayed there.
That was a moment of joy.