o thing that consoles

how clumsily i thank and fail to thank you

for plans to make dinners together
for the times between darkness and light
for the warmth of unremembered dreams

for the babies that sleep inside our bones
for proud fathers and their growing gardens
for bold bodies of water that tremble at my touch
for kind words, fascination, wonder
for the poetry of list-making
for gratitude

oh thing that consoles

how clumsily i thank you

for kind homes in which to rest

for waking with friends

for breakfasts in bed

for clear minds and attentive reading

for the peacefulness of rain

for food that satisfies and treats my body well

for the invisible man humming behind the wall of mailboxes

for books that make me giggle out loud

for feeling like a misfit among the scientists

for peace, peace, peace

and a profound sense of being at home