(with apologies to Robert Frost)
Something there is that doesn’t love
a poem of thanksgiving right now,
that chokes on superficial sentimentality,
and quashes any wanton expressions of joy,
and forcefully diverts energy into darker discourse.
There is a war, it says. There are dead
and dying and grieving and raging
and broken-hearted people
strewn everywhere.
Something there is that doesn’t love
a poem of thanksgiving right now,
that judges it blasphemous
to give thanks in the face of the unfaceable.
And yet— gratitude stubbornly arises,
tear-stained and insistent.
And so I give thanks
for the deep pink of an October sunset
reflected on the blue green ocean,
and for the elderly couple
stepping carefully out of their sandals
and ambling to the water’s edge,
hand in tender hand;
and for the old man encouraging his little granddaughter
to climb the rocks lining the barrier wall --
no hint of anxiety in his voice,
no doubting of her capacity for risking
and becoming.
I give thanks for these reminders
that existence includes both darkness
and light, each meaningless
without the other.