What is comfort?

What is comfort to me?

Is it as simple as a list?

Maybe.

I could put it to music

And dance in curtains

When I get bitten or stung.

I start my curious search:

It ranges over senses

But the feeling is the same:

A jigsaw made of

Warmth, pleasure, safety.

A well-placed cushion

On a reading chair

With a good book

Nestling in your lap.

A world awaiting you

Where your mind becomes stretched

But limbs are closeted.

Sun on your face,

Small birds on the feeders,

Sweet scent in your nose.

Earthly provisions,

Wafting past.

The boom of surf

On a golden beach,

Pebbles knocking and clicking

In the undertow.

Salt wind prodding pink cheeks

While small birds scatter,

Their long scimitar beaks

Leaving holes;

Their footprints triangular

Lines in the sand.

A glimpse of a shell,

spiral patterns,

satin sheen of opalescence.

Arms, circling, enveloping;

Caring.

Taste greeting you

From a stodgy meal.

Leaves falling, fire raging.

A full belly, a soporific.

A shared hopeful view on

The goodness of folk:

The humanity in humanity,

The rightness of things.

A song of reminders,

A time travelling tune

That transports you

To the vaults where

Memories retire.

A task done well

A fulfilled ambition -

Or is that satisfaction?

I am exploring my notions;

Thinking and searching.

Analysis of an emotion:

I do not normally entertain

This process.

I am surprised to feel comforted.

The delving has provided

Succour.

The writing, the placing of words

Has rested me;

I am relaxed.

It seems that comfort comes

In guises.

It shelters in the little things.

It is a humble beast,

lumbering and gentle,

Woolly, tactile, approachable.

It does not demand

Your attention.

It sneaks to soften you,

Like a cotton wool cloud.

You sink into it,

And it holds you.

Secure, for a time.

I will take this feeling

Unexpected as it is,

And hope that it holds me

A little longer.