On Gratitude (a poem).

Things I am grateful for:

The green screen of leaves

on the weeping birch.

The napping baby.

The purple ink

on the blank page.

The tea that is forthcoming.

The shower of pink blossoms

snow in May.

Pink blossoms inside, too,

in the vase your aunt made

from brown clay

many years ago.

How do these things find their way

to you?

This is the question of God

or luck

and all that you’ve been given:

The home with the ancient trees

that only belong to themselves.

The kettle full of clean water.

The sleeping child who asks you

daily

to have only humility

and gratitude.

Thanks for reading.

-Beth