A quiet joy, but nevertheless real

There is very little that compares with the experience of initially cracking open a new book: the stark contrast of the bare title against a vast background of empty white; the hidden story (or stories)--that may never be revealed--behind each name on the dedication page; and the promise of entry into a world that has been so easily granted by a mere purchase.

Warm on my skin, the evening sun hangs low in the sky. The crisp winds of early autumn blow with gentle persuasion; weeds, flowers, shrubs and tips of branches bow and sway, whispering in agreement. As I open a new tome, a zephyr scatters a sprinkling of purplish wisteria petals across my lap, and the leaves of my book--a veritable druidic sanctification.

I look up and smile in gratitude at the unseen Architect of this joyous serendipity.

What is love?

Why, this is.