Gratitude is a leaf that laughs
. . . .and falls up toward the sun
and glides and soars like a red-tailed hawk
. . . .whose heart won’t be undone
by clouds as inky as the jaws
. . . .of a giant carnivore.
It never wants to land on earth,
. . . .in oak or sycamore,
but keeps ascending, drifting, wheeling
. . . .over the hills and fields
and thinks a cyclone sounds as fine
. . . .as a thousand glockenspiels.
It laughs with the glee of a major key,
. . . .though the world’s so full of minor,
and goes on hovering and gliding
. . . .beyond the last airliner.
Gratitude is not a whiner.
. . . .Gratitude will not moan.
While awestruck by the universe,
. . . .how can it feel alone?
by Martin J. Elster
Editor’s Note: This poem seemed rather apropros for the day after Thanksgiving.
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