Just who can say what makes a splendid day?
Could it be weather, neither gray nor sunny?
Or lovely friends, or impromptu soirees
At which a game predictably turns funny?
Or maybe it’s that mix of novelty
And mourning those familiar things now past,
Although some aspects of the memory
Persist, despite unlikeliness to last.
Perhaps these complications and desires,
Thus born of what’s expected and believed,
Engender joy that naturally transpires
When perfect parity has been achieved.
The confluence of wistfulness and verity
Are sadly, an inestimable rarity.