Some days I dream myself into softness,
round edges and unhurried footsteps,
a life measured in jars of honey
and the patience it takes to unseal them.
Winnie the Pooh doesn’t apologize for simplicity,
his shirt too small, his belly too full,
never one for pants or pretense.
What’s shame to a bear with friends that stay?
He knows the world buzzes with sweetness—
in bees, in blooms, in quiet companionship.
He never rushes a good thing,
never pretends hunger isn’t hunger.
I look at his honey-sticky hands
and wonder about the art of taking.
The ease of loving what makes life golden,
without asking if you deserve it.
To devour joy and be devoured by it,
without dressing up in anything extra,
a heart unarmored, an appetite unhidden.
What’s not to admire in that?