A meadow, a small crowd of trees
marching over the hillside
over a million years pauses for me here
and I’m so grateful.
God I thank you for every thing,
for the whole of it, not partial,
good and ill,
for the bird that ate my snack, thank you,
the morning walk and the poop stepped in,
for grace that hauled me from deepest pit,
sunlight on a pitcher handle, thank you,
for sickness— the body to be sick—
and recovery, always trailing death,
the small yellow stone happy on a city street,
always your mystery in it,
mountains leaping up can’t contain it.
Humility tackles me. Wonder erupts.
Thankfulness tangles my words.
I give you thanks,
may every thought word and deed be thanks,
and after I die
linger in the air.
August 2, 2019