Thankful


The yard looked stunning yesterday.

When I finished mowing,

I trimmed round the roses,

headed the geraniums,

and walked to the street to look back on my work.

The house, as grey as

springtime fog,

with sage green shutters

was trimmed in gold by the brush of afternoon sun;

all now just a memory.

My yard is there, somewhere

beneath a pile of

cars, shingles, fence posts,

the house an open dance floor,

no orchestra in sight.

Perched like a giant bird

in the stub of a tree,

my refrigerator still holds yesterday’s leftovers

and eggs for today’s breakfast,

forever scrambled.

From a shredded branch of a magnolia tree

a mockingbird sings his joy:

for the bright sunshine,

for living another day.

I nod and sigh,

and a hesitant smile swells from deep within me

as I must,

in spite of everything,

join his celebration.

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