Not only the golden yellow belly
of the evening grosbeak as he bobs
below the feeder; not only
the rich purple flash of the black-chinned
hummingbird charging the air with iridescence;
it could, in fact, be any gray-winged thing,
even, for instance, a cricket, common as grass,
prehistoric and segmented in its armor, yes,
it could be anything—ant hill, moth dust,
soft moss, ginger—anything at all
that makes you, for a moment, pause
to take in the miracle of what is here, and
the attendant miracle that you are here, too,
as witness, and in this pleat of a pause,
you might find yourself stunned with a gratefulness
you could never hope to name, a thanksgiving
beyond the syllables of prayer, a throbbing
thanksgiving for the utter marvel of this life
that none of us did anything at all to deserve,
yes, gratefulness for the pausing itself,
that portal through which we travel
to find everything, everything is holy,
even the pill bug, even the tick,
even the one who cannot stop stuttering
thank you, thank you, thank you.