Gratitude, Gracias, or grassy-ass as Kirk would say. How do you say thank you for a year that was unkind? I’m thankful for my lust for food, ot diminished by age. The black checker at Costco lit up and lifted himself out of his robotic stance when he saw my excitement over a chicken sandwich. He said have a nice day and meant it.
I’m thankful for my curiosity, a trait, that what has lead me astray more than once. Curiosity to spend hours on Google Earth trying to find geologic anomalies and standing stones. I’m thankful for the fact that Neil let me go on wild hunts, whenever I got a buzz up the back of my neck, knowing I was closer yet to something ancient. The unnamed stones at Girdle Toll, an abandoned coal mine turned into a folly park.
We thanked the stones on the solstice and dressed them with holly, roses and rosehips, and Glen Fiddich. I’m thankful for the fact that Neil put himself aside just for a moment and entered into the solstice rituals without trying to take over—the way he usually does.
He so generously sluoshed the stones with whiskey at Cloch-na-Derrick, Rhyderick’s stone, a glacial erratic, divining the full moon on New Year’s night.
I’m sad that I had so little time for art, or for writing. I didn’t write my New Year’s Eve list. I’m sad that I am entering a decade of poetic silence. I am thankful that I still can craft words and make puns the few metaphors make it to the page.
1/19/2007 Writers’ Group?
No comments:
Post a Comment