It doesn’t have to be
— Mary Oliver
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak
My words will never be as elaborate as an abandoned tree uprooted, maybe, by the wind another decade ago. Perhaps, they’re a little rugged like the 300-million year old rocky bed beneath my feet. But this prayer of gratitude in my heart is raw and naked as nature.
Thank you, 2019, for keeping it real.
Thank you for the sunrises, the sunsets, the trials, the lessons, the bad that showed me the good, the good that showed me the world’s not as pervasively bad as it seems, the paved roads, the choppy waters, the blue skies, the dark clouds, the peaks, the valleys, the tears, the laughs, the pain, the healing, the strangers, the old and the new friends, and family.
But mostly, thank you for the growth, for reminding me I’m alive. How could I ask for anything more?
Amen.