Wild strawberry - 3 Poems About Gratitude, Including This Given Day

POEMS BY JAMES CREWS: This Given Day, Finding the Islands, The Hug

This Given Day

These 24 hours were granted
to you, offered as a gift the moment
you opened heavy eyes to the blue light
of dawn rinsing every shadow from the room.

True, not all parts of today will feel
worthy of gratitude—perhaps you’ll still
stare in a mirror with a stab of guilt
for the body that does not look back.

Let that pass. The universe made you
for joy, too, shaped your mouth to smile
even at your own confusion. Sunlight now
dances on the walls with leaf-shadows,

and the table and chairs are both sacred
and plain—and this new day, like a restless
golden retriever, nuzzles at your feet—
begging you to go out, breathe in the world.

Finding the Islands

Look for islands of brief reprieve,
open spaces in an otherwise crowded day
where you can come ashore for a while,
find safe harbour. Hear again the warble
of hidden birds, and isolate each inter-
woven strand of song, even if you can’t
name the small bodies who sing them.
Click the airplane icon on your phone,
which means no messages will fly to you
with their bad news, landing in the branches
of your mind. Let your thoughts climb
to the sky like the vines of morning glory,
and see the glint of a red pebble in the yard
still stippled with dew—the first wild
strawberry of the season, which you pluck
and eat right there in knee-high weeds,
a tiny feast of an instant before the rest
of the day’s worries try to haul you
back out to stormy seas.

The Hug

The other night at the bookstore,
everyone masked, keeping their distance,
I ran into a friend and asked if I could
give her a hug, and something relaxed
in her face, her whole body, as we
leaned in, held each other closer awhile.
She was wearing the slightly oversized,
bright red cardigan that once belonged
to her grandfather, which she usually
keeps in the closet to remember him.
I pressed my face into the fabric,
breathing in, grateful to be touched
and to touch again. No surprise then, as I
learned recently, that when we’re forming
in the womb, the first signs of our arms
are these tiny buds that grow directly
from the heart, branching out. As my friend
and I parted ways that night, I felt
a blooming in my chest, like a tulip
easing open the hinges of its petals
on the first warm morning of a spring
I thought might never come.

«RELATED READ» POEMS BY JIM JOHNSTON: The Fateful Shaping of a World and more»


image: Pixabay

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *