It was one of those days when the alarm
didn’t go off, and we woke anyway
to a world covered in snow, and
by noon the sky was blue. And I drove
right through the construction zone
without being stopped by a flagger.
The tomato for breakfast was ripe
and sharp and sweet. And the tea
was strong and black. The radio
played only songs I wanted to sing.
My car started. I had no flat tires.
I never felt sick. Never fell. More blessings,
it turns out, than a woman can count, though
I try to count them all. And the more
I remember—a good friend called, all
ten fingers are intact, my eyes still
see across the room—yes,
the more blessings I consider, the more
my joy grows until I am dumbfounded,
gobsmacked by gratitude that’s exactly
the size of the known universe, amazed by
how perfectly it fits—as if I were made for this—
right inside my skin.
