Sacred gardeners

“Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.”

                                                                         Marcel Proust

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I can be thankful for many things

Sometimes I forget this

I might wake up thinking of the corporate takeover of America by Trump

I might wake up remembering that right now, physically,

Everything hurts, and what doesn’t hurt doesn’t work

I can go negative in half a breath

But if I slowly take the rest of that breath

And look around

I see my home, which I love

I can look out the window and see Mt Joseph glowing in the morning sun

I can watch the sun rise over the Seven Devils

And see the clouds catch fire

I can hear the horses greet me as I go out of feed them

And I can get horse kisses

And I can look at the destruction in my living room

The telltale signs that there are people

Somewhere

Asleep

People I love, and who love me

And I can sit in the middle of the mess

Shoes, and pillows, jigsaw puzzles and cards

And remember people far away, like my daughter and her family

Who are still a part of this moment

And people no longer here, my mother and father

So long gone

All those people who been gardeners of my soul

And have made it, for all the weeds and barren places

Blossom

Thanksgiving!