HAPPINESS

What Happiness Is

It is not in noise or neon light,
Nor in the rush of youthful flight.
It’s not in riches, fame, or speed,
But something slower, more in need.

It is the hush of morning’s grace,
A knowing glance, a steady pace.
It’s hearing your name in a hallway song,
And feeling, at last, that you still belong.

It isn’t control, we’ve lost that, it’s true.
The world’s been handed to a reckless new crew.
Our hands don’t build as they once could,
Our voices now softer, but still understood.

We are the keepers of stories and scars,
Of courtroom battles and time beneath stars.
Of raising a child, of building a name,
Though now they instruct us, we taught them the game.

Happiness hides in the simplest of things:
A shared slice of pie, a barbershop sing.
A smoke with a friend, a warm patch of sun,
A memory rising when the day is done.

It is not the joy of dancing on air,
But the dignity found in an old wooden chair.
It’s not always laughter or bright party rooms,
But kindness that lingers and softens the gloom.

So let others chase what fades overnight,
We’ve lived long enough to see the real light.
Happiness dwells where the patient abide,
And walks, not runs,  at our slower side.