There's just no accounting for happiness, br or the way it turns up like a prodigal br who comes back to the dust at your feet br having squandered a fortune far away. br br And how can you not forgive? br You make a feast in honor of what br was lost, and take from its place the finest br garment, which you saved for an occasion br you could not imagine, and you weep night and day br to know that you were not abandoned, br that happiness saved its most extreme form br for you alone. br br No, happiness is the uncle you never br knew about, who flies a single-engine plane br onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes br into town, and inquires at every door br until he finds you asleep midafternoon br as you so often are during the unmerciful br hours of your despair. br br It comes to the monk in his cell. br It comes to the woman sweeping the street br with a birch broom, to the child br whose mother has passed out from drink. br It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing br a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker, br and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots br in the night. br It even comes to the boulder br in the perpetual shade of pine barrens, br to rain falling on the open sea, br to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.