It’s like chicken pox,
or the flu, or a cold,
only better, the way
that it catches when
someone suggests
that no matter how
stiff, how tired, how
down we might be,
the days are alive
and open to loving
and inside some small
voice, perhaps very,
very small, says, yes,
and the loving does
what loving does,
contagious and sure,
makes it all seem so
very easy, inevitable,
passed on and passed on.