The Gift of Asking

You asked for fifty cents,

I gave you five dollars.

It was what I had

And that's a gift to me, isn't it?

Your asking,

And my giving.

And my realizing how wealthy

I am today

To have met you,

In your black dress,

With your red-tipped hair.

Your leather boots,

And your face damp

With late spring rain.


Gratitude comes

In small doses.

Ordinary encounters

Like walks in the rain,

And roses,

Tangled up in sky.

And there is love possible

In each moment

Of every day if

We pause and notice.

If we talk to one another.

If we remember

Who we are.


Not alone.

Not isolated but

Mycorrhizal networks

snaking underground.

And canopies of branches,

Leafed with green.

Our blood is filled

With the death of

One thousand stars.

We shine here,

On this muddy

Concrete-covered earth.

We shine.



 

This poem was funded by my generous Patreon supporters.

Want to join? You get advance copies of stories, essays, and poems, plus works in progress, process blogs, and free e-books once a quarter. Plus, Write With Me Saturdays!

59 views2 comments

Recent Posts

See All