Words Of Content

These are the days of contentment:
The head that shook, and the mouth that laughed.
The child that grew, and the hand that loved it.
The sour, tender cries of a cat in a chilled February night.

Those were the times of the contentment. 
But we didn't know we were content. 
How could we?​
Even when we utter words - we do not know them.
We don't know words, really. 
Not but for what they are:
A foreign vessel to our feelings, our memories, our dreams.
They float and we grab them carelessly, recklessly, speedily.
Words do not make us content. 
But people do. 
And places do.
And happenings do. 
And time. 
Time... they say there is a time to live and a time to day. 
Who are they?
Do THEY set the time?
And if so, will they rise up and tell us when is the time to live?
And when is the time to die?

I sit against a wall. 
A cat on my lap. 
And the moonlight at the window sends a kiss.
Is this contentment?
It is - for a moment.
And then - the moment is gone.