“I thank you God for this most
amazing day, for the leaping greenly
spirits of trees, and for the blue
dream of sky and for everything
which is natural, which is infinite,
which is yes.”
— e. e. cummings, poet
Thanksgivings
—remembering Rosie
For years, it was like this:
a terrier through the window, barking,
the steps leading up, weathering grey,
all of them, arriving, as fog dissolved
to a wreath of ravens’ wings in blue sky,
and for awhile there’d be 25, maybe 40,
familiar bodies, crowding, as if another
cluster of mums on the deck,
ruddy faces, round and open, taking in
each other’s light, the gates
to her little yard, sagging further
on their hinges.