In the long months of winter, we can all use a shot of unadulterated joy, one brought to you through the stunning photography of my daughter, Collyn, and the beautiful spirit of my niece, Zarah.

 So this is joy:
  
 your silk skirt alive,
 a deep red river running at your feet;
 the gilded grass;
 the cottonwood bough which lowers
 an unexpected crown;
  
 and a distant tree line squeezing the sun
 to the center of the clearing 
 where it settles into a buttery pat 
 of light.
  
 So this is joy:
 the switchgrass lit with birthday candles
 a fiery party for one;
  
 while above, the late afternoon sky pales,
 an afterthought. 
  
 So this is joy:
 arms which open
 with minds of their own;
 such bounty, such unculled charity,
 as if to pull the whole world in—
 all its toadstools and troubles—
  
 and you, twirling in the twilight, 
 your silk cyclone such a magnificent sight,
 daring the world to sulk.