On Contentment

Satisfaction oozed out the edges of my life from so many little cracks: a larger pants size, the cubicle-apartment spread where I live, the gray of these northern months, of cold, of drab.
I reheated the tea in the microwave twice, and forgot about it twice. I slumped. Finally, I slept.
Then, this morning, with the sink water clear-running into my cupped palms, the cold overflowing, I remembered and wept for the beauty of this great abundance.

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