Gratitude

didn’t appear with angels,

though they’d be nice, all that hubbub

and buzz and the onerous nod from above.

It’s more like the flump at the top

when the stair runs out of steps

before you do, or the basketball

you threw in desperation

that hits the rim for three

bounces, then finds its way

through the simple middle.

Or it appears this morning,

unfolding myself from a dark bed

like a letter to the day

and knowing what to do,

happy to carry a thermos of coffee

to the car and stand under the vague sky,

stars letting in light like bullet holes

over new snow, over
the car that starts while the heater

does its good work.  A straw of dark
steam rises from my chimney 
and the ashy light falls down on us
( & x 1000 sleeping houses), 

all my brothers and sisters and me.