Happiness is rarely
As other voices jockey for the lead.
Perhaps it is most comfortable as bass,
Pleased to underlie the others' grace,
Yielding to their histrionic need,
Holding up their fragile harmony.
On holidays, however, it becomes
Less self-effacing, stepping forth to sing,
In moments filled with labor, love, and longing,
Deep descants on the beauty of belonging;
After which, again retiring,
Yet not before the harried heart takes wing,
Softly at the base of life it hums.