I like being thankful. For the touch
that heals my wounds
before a scar

becomes an eye. For the mother that
had death before my coming. Her
strength, an inheritance

richer than monetary blunders. For
the father that taught strength
through eye-stares,

strong enough to speak through silence. For
the brother that taught what greatness
was, & for

his intelligence being inspirational. For
the God that judges my actions. For His
forgiveness when

I become what I shouldn’t, when I pray
& He listens. For the wind that sings
to me when a voice

isn’t near. For shadows that flicker-dance
atop my walls, flying shape in circular
motions. For jazz music. For

the rhythms of its passion, guiding my writing
to become its reflection. For poetry
& its many forms. For

finding me when depression wouldn’t let
me find creativity. For my place of rest
& its many stories

that I will recite when tomorrow seems too
dark to exist. For anyone reading these
words, learning of my gratitude.