Joy as Extended Metaphor

Joy is the new pen I take out of the package when the old one has run dry, its lifeblood spilled out in sacrifice to the daily ritual of sitting in front of this window and writing what I see beyond the glass: my own yard, the sidewalk, the tree dropping its twigs and leaves onto the roof of the car I now rarely use, the street the dogs and I walk up twice a day, the yellow house on the other side with its ever-changing garden. The tulips of early spring, give way to irises by May, followed by roses and daisies in June and July. Joy is watching life progress like this even as it also seems to stand still, realizing that the closer I look at the stillness, the more moving parts it has. Joy is the dirt beneath my fingernails when I pull dandelions out of the lawn; it teems with slugs and grubs and centipedes, roly-polys and sometimes spiders. And joy is the dandelions themselves, continually springing back up in the spots where I rip them unceremoniously out of the ground, refusing to be eradicated by my callous diligence. Root fragments unwittingly left behind grow from near-nothingness, clawing their way through the dark, damp, packed-in earth, reaching for the daylight and the air that, as far as they know, could be mere inches or vast miles above them. Hope may have feathers but joy digs its way out of the dirt, and breaking through, extends its insistent head up toward the sky, spreads its leafy arms wide and unfurls its glorious mane, as if to rival the sun.