Joan asks me what happens after we die,
and I don’t know, but I do know
how to stand beside the river
and see a shrine in every rock I find,
which is how I spent the day yesterday.
And I know that walking today
in the snow, every step felt like
a prayer, which is to say
I feel so very lucky to be alive,
even though I don’t know who
the prayer is to—nor what the point
of praying is—except that on days like today
I overspill with gratitude
and it feels so good to say thank you
for this life that happens before we know
what happens after we die.
This is a curious and potentially powerful second line, the way the phrases bump against each other:
“and I don’t know, but I do know…”
I think it sets me up as reader for a stab at an answer before the end, a poetic answer at least, but your ending only repeats the beginning. I guess I expected a grander finale.
I take some of it back: on rereread I see the certainty at the end of the poem of knowing what happens after we die, whatever it may be. And the title emphasizes how your focus is on life, so perhaps I am just babbling. I wonder if we continue to do that after we die…
As you already know, this might be one of my favorite of all your poems. Thank you for knowing and not knowing.
Thank you for writing it down.
[…] disagree with Jessa that gratitude requires some sort of higher entity to thank. Thankfulness is a marvelous feeling, even when it’s directed at an uncaring universe. Gratitude is a ritual for embracing life’s […]