Joy Poem by Stephen Bennett The Playjurist

When the one word comes from one,
who should know... and they want me to
hear it there too, and the first thought of a life’s end
always known is quickly more now than ever before.
By sudden surprise now defined with a measure
unsure. Though we know what we know
we still don't know when, so actually, really
it's still like before, but here with a sooness now
we need to be all ready for, and
I call it joy. But how

How do I get that?
as I'm watching her on the wicker throne,
does she see that I am? No matter.
She may now be for her first time alone.
I love that window. I love that chair.
And I love a woman of mine who is siting there
watching an earth that's mine and hers become
now only hers in a new life with new eyes.
Through God's miracle of love, as I watch...
I see it too. But not with her. I too
am now by myself. We are imaginations
of life. That eternity has been unknown
and always before us is sad,
I didn't think so before, but now
I call it joy. But how?

Can I say that?
The fetal curl in her posture bows down.
Her face in a sternness not angry or loud
and her eyes both dry, but in this not proud.
All the folks who know and knew her
overwhelmingly nowhere around.
Three children with the rest of their lives
already going on. And me.
And me? Who knows? I think all
I can think... about the leaves so close
to here eyes, and the breath of God
so warm to her sighs. She and I
were never alone or maybe were
all the time. What judgement can come?
If she is found at all short...
best believe I'm all done.
And all who know her name will hear it
once more, and she at whatever her rank
will be by all forgiven, worshiped and thanked
such an amazing thing. The best thing I think...
I call it joy... and still wonder how

could that be?
Peering through flickering maple green
leaves, hanging before everything known
or believed... noisy cars and ghetto kid
shouts, and the billions of stars all up there
drowned out by the mighty sun...
the first God there was, before this one.
I watch with her before the end
of the dance, when everything given
must go back to the man. When we do
get there... new kids in a new school...
knowing not any, or knowing each one.
We're given to think it will be more than okay.
Thus we've been told and thus we believe.
With all that gathers we can't help but grieve.
And I now think of all I know of everything,
what I know of her and what I now
know of me, and
I call it joy. A light
in the darkness beyond our sight.
And I don't know how I got this,
but I know I'm right.