Giving Thanks

Giving Thanks

All the time I am asked how I came to be
living out among these Cinaro Trees,
how did I arrive at Three Candle Farm
with its white flowers and the porch lights on.
And what can I say, especially time after time,
the same old story that no longer seems mine.
Just once I would dare to let myself explain
And praise, and give thanks, to the wind, and the rain.
Somewhere I laugh, saying that was never the case,
And it’s true that a big beating heart has its place,
But the rain when it falls as it did way back when
hushes the world like nothing else can.
The rain adds silence till the greatest silence is heard.
Even a big beating heart feels absurd.

And wind, have you ever heard of such a thing,
puffing around, moving its things?
I ignored the breezed completely,
and found its explanations grim.
Such as air moving out, or air moving in.
Yet years later, one spirited gust, as if astray,
whisked about the house, and up to the window to say-
Well here I am, silly girl, with your three candles and your trees.
Is there anything else you just cannot believe?
And the big beating heart,
that by then, had been put to the test,
was startled by the question, and replied-  Yes, o, yes.