I am finding joy
in the little things again.
A jar of spice,
that pungent powder,
from a specialty store,
two spry puppies rolling
in a social sparring,
a truffle of dark chocolate,
cool line of liquor
flooding my tongue.

I am finding joy
in his crooked finger
straining upward, pointing
to the waving leaves and limbs
of trees, to boats bobbing
in the lakefront marina,
to the eighteen-wheeler sliding
past us on the freeway,
to the wedge of toast hidden
beneath pale yellow eggs.

I am finding joy
not in the measurements
or accolades, nor the “whys?”
and wants, nor the precociousness
of a typical toddler.
I am finding joy in him,
he who deserves
to be celebrated
as a joy onto himself.