See our Privacy Policy
Gratefulness
It covers everything, fine powder, the earth’s gold breath falling softly on the dark wood dresser, blue ceramic bowls, picture frames on the wall. It wafts up from canyons, carried on the wind, on the wings of birds, in the rough fur of animals as they rise from the ground. Sometimes it’s copper, sometimes dark as ink. In great storms, it even crosses the sea. Once, when my grandmother was a girl, a strong gale lifted red dust from Africa and took it thousands of miles away to the Caribbean where people swept it from their doorsteps, kept it in small jars, reminder of that other home. Gandhi said, “The seeker after truth should be humbler than the dust.” Wherever we go, it follows. I take a damp cloth, swipe the windowsills, the lamp’s taut shade, run a finger over the dining room table. And still, it returns, settling in the gaps between floorboards, gilding the edges of unread books. What could be more loyal, more lonely, and unsung?
From Bonfire Opera (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2020). Posted by kind permission of the poet.
Two nights after he died, all night I heard the same one-line story on repeat:…
For times of grief and sorrow, we offer this curated collection of poems as a…
Somewhere someone needs help. Send love. It matters. If you can’t get there yourself, then…
This site is brought to you by A Network for Grateful Living, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit. All donations are fully tax deductible in the U.S.A.
© 2000 - 2022, A Network for Grateful Living
Website by Briteweb