Sensed, for the Day 26 prompt.
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Sometimes joy is the rush of wind
past skin, as one finds a rhythm
in which feet pound pavements,
the sight of the night sky tinged
pink, like a splash of paint
on a vast canvas.
Sometimes joy is the scent of bread
on a cold winter day, an invitation
whispered on the wings of the wind
to hunker down before a fire and be.
Whether in the brush of soft breath
on skin, the quiet reassurance of a
song remembered, heard in the bottom
of the soul, and the warmth of spices
on the tongue, joy sometimes is,
what is not uncertain is that
home is there.