The world exists just fine without
our appreciation. It is not for us
that the dandelions bloom in tides of yellow
across the valley floor. Not for us
that the elk stream in a slow brown current
before disappearing into Englemann spruce.
And then there are the tiny empires
of grasshoppers, ants and bees—
and the underground realms of prairie dogs
and worms and rhizomes and moles—
intricate and entirely oblivious to praise.
And still, this drive toward gratitude.
Still this tug to pull over the car and marvel,
this impulse to offer the world our attention,
as if being very still and alert is as vital
to the moment as scurry and swerve,
scamper and stride. Perhaps it is.
Posted by kind permission of Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer.
We can’t believe our luck: to have found this pair of pears on the ground…
When the light around you lessens And your thoughts darken until Your body feels fear…
You are not fifteen, or twelve, or seventeen— You are a hundred wild centuries And…
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