gratitude

the sand gets in, no matter, so pervasive it is.

flood it with water, it simply becomes

a solution, and not at all the kind

that solves. rather it muddies one’s vision

 

for a time

the grit irritates and clogs and turns

smooth surfaces coarse, so that kneeling

is merely painful

then the only thing left is to sit

let it settle, decant, quench one’s thirst

on the crystalline water poured out

dig for the pearl in the sludge

 

treasure its smooth iridescence

 

 

 

 

 

hope

is a book

that persuades you to sit for another hour and lures you to turn yet another page, 

invention of nature

as you learn of  a man born centuries ago, who is driven by a sense of wonder, who charges from his tent to drink in the wild array, who believes he might go mad if the wonders don’t stop, who hears “nature everywhere speaking to him in a voice familiar to his soul’, whose pen dances across the page to that melody, who understands his journal as a record of his love, who unabashedly marries his sensual delight to his probing intellect, who recites the science of the cosmos as the most sublime of poems, whose spirit is alive with awe

who makes you believe that the world is safe in our hands,

or if it is not, at least assures you that you are not in it alone

 

hope is a book,

who has saved my life more than once

literally

 

 

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