I'm often angry
at ghosts of the past,
anxious about threats
that the future never brings,
very much out of place
in the precarious, precious present.
I get frantic, fretful.
I shake my fist at the heavens,
get sick of the injustice of it all.
But there are moments:
private moments far from the crowd,
silent moments amid the crowd,
clear-hearted, clear-sighted moments,
moments of peace when I can recall
the many gifts I've been given,
the thousand and one palpable graces,
life, limb, food, drink, friend, kin, air, sleep,
a roof against the rain, neighbourly neighbours,
the morning cup of coffee,
when I can be thankful,
trusting that Compassion
renews itself each day.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
Read 121 times
Written on 2018-02-28 at 08:34
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email