Tuesday, December 1, 2009

A Poem on Gratitude


How much, some days, you just want to bury your head under the duvet, that great billowy cloud of total, beautiful anonymity. Imagining you could take breakfast there, and the pile of mail to go through, your backlog of magazines.
Inches away, on their last morning, the tulips are waking up to the very edge of themselves, unwrapping their petals shamelessly against the sun, bending toward the light in great, voluptuous bursts of orange.

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