ballad for a happy man

they say he makes love to his collection of classic novels

and whispers sweet nothings into his afternoon tea
alone in a robe he acts an opera
singing off-key from his balcony
the stray flock to his home
with the promise of food and a caress
and every day he paints what he sees
touching his brow to wet canvas
shall the window bear his weight any longer?
or at last fall through into depths of despair
not at night. the colors hold him
he steps inside after bidding the garden farewell
kissing each mirror goodnight
and thanking vases for dutifully holding up fragile life
he lays himself down into a bed of peonies smelling strongly of spring
still dressed in his overcoat and muddy boots
eyes fluttering shut gentle as butterfly’s wings
palms open towards the sky
anointed by his bedroom ceiling
some assume he’s a kook
in love with art and nothing else
but i think he’s simply in love with being
and not ashamed to be in love with himself