The walk and the wake of it,
The talk and the take of it,
This life is mine,
And filled with mines,
Yet Yours it is,
In the breathe and the breath of it,
In the deep and the death of it.
The grace and the grease of it,
The trace and the truth of it.
I lie down in it,
To rise and raise in it,
To prize the praise of it.
In the meek and the milk of it,
In the speak and the spilt of it,
On my knees in it,
To pray and plead in it,
To stay and lead in it.
The thank You and the Your of it,
On the dew and the shore of it.
Oh the gift of it.
I was going to be grateful,
I really was.
I breathed into a new day,
And got distracted
By the bacon and its applause,
By the smell wending to my
Nose while the eggs cuddled
In its campfire grease.
Then I looked away
At the bird perched across
The field under the strands
Of pinkish, blueish, grayish
And I wondered how the grackle
Got so lucky to sit and be.
I got jealous of its ability
To defy gravity,
While I drank a bit of coffee.
Gratitude will just have to wait,
While I sit with my feet
Over the register under my desk–
The furnace kicked on…
I’ll be thankful later.
The wind swayed a tall pine back and forth.
The whispers fell like needles into my innermost.
The rain sprayed my spine up and down.
The spit spat cold on my cheek bones.
Strange beauty, sensual mystery.
Who threw the salt into center night?
Deep space thoughts sprinkled
The flavor of infinity dashed
between light years
and a dark night.
The staring, my taste buds,
the stars, raise my blood pressure.
“When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars, which you have set in place,
what is man that you are mindful of him,
and the son of man that you care for him?”