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Gratefulness
Once I would say “table,” and mean “table.” Once, I would say “broccoli” and mean “broccoli.” I would say “stone” and mean “stone.” I really did believe that things were separate. And nameable. Now, every word that comes out of my mouth, no matter how many syllables, no matter the tone of voice, no matter my intention, I’ve come to understand that every word is really just a translation for thank you, thank you for this moment. And every silence between the words, regardless how brief, is really just the sound of one hand in gratitude clapping.
Posted by kind permission of the poet. This poem first appeared on Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer’s daily poem blog, A Hundred Falling Veils.
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When we get through this, I want us to set a table with all of…
To a Brown Boy ’Tis a noble gift to be brown, all brown, Like…
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