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Gratefulness
The grass seems lusher in the wet gray air,
but less approachable now— thick curtain of pouring rain.
The day before I leave your home,
crimson urn on the dark cherry coffee table, picture windows framing the lagoon—
all seem more beautiful, knowing I won’t see them for another year.
As though I look at them through something like
this curtain of rain.
More beautiful, but beautiful still on all the days before.
I used to envy the simply grateful, who, without needing
separation or loss,
would lift their heads from their busy supper or book
and revel in the steam from a teacup winding its slow way to nothingness in the air,
or just the teacup catching the window’s tiny parallelogram of light.
Poem by Sally Bliumis-Dunn , originally published in Rattle #30, Winter 2008 and appearing in her second collection, Second Skin (Wind Publications, 2010). All rights reserved. Posted with kind permission of the poet.
I want a word that means okay and not okay, more than that: a word…
On Earth, just a teaspoon of neutron star would weigh six billion tons. Six billion…
He wants to fill in the pasture’s low spots. I say no, no, no these…
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