A Silent Thanksgiving

Dust motes dance in the harsh light from your desk lamp.
There is the smell of firewood in the air.
You look down at your desk, at the warm colors and grain
of two hundred year old wood,

and sip your cup of coffee, a hint of it’s bitter power
holding court through the sugar and cream.
Two cards, one from your daughter,
one from the woman you love sit on the desk,
two cards whose words you can recite from re-reading
that bring a smile to your face.

Your eyes burn. It is allergy season and the first trees are blooming.
The fire in your eyes is not a complaint,
but a celebration of the change of seasons,
the end of winter, a small price to pay for the new warmth.

There is a heaviness in your muscles, a hangover
from too many miles walked the day before.
a reminder that you are no longer young, a reminder
that you have not yet surrendered to your age,

Outside, birds sing. The sky is slightly pink
as day rises over the quarry.
The early morning light cuts across a box of paints
and you smile and the canvas, half done in the next room,
it’s promise not yet fulfilled, there is room yet for miracles.

Finally, you pray. Images of those you love, and
one or two how would do you harm flicker
in your mind’s eye, each a blessing in their own way,
you plea their case and rejoice in them,
a silent thanksgiving.

You breathe deeply, soaking in the power
of the random beauty all around you,
so grateful it hurts, like a muscle overused,
broken, so it can grow stronger.

About this poem. 

It is not that we don’t have miracles and beauty all around us. We just forget to stop and see them.

Tom