I heard that
thanks is a prayer.
Thanks is enough.
Struggles arise,
angels and saviors.
Old scripture along side the new.
I have morphed
from the faithful
to the spiritual.
I read verses,
I listened to chants.
I am my father's daughter.
He claimed to find refuge and
communion anywhere.
He crawled from death to life.
He dwelt in the moment
because nothing is promised.
It was a gift
that he unknowingly handed to me.
I find solace.
I find sanctuary,
in a dark room or
under a vast sky.
Sitting beneath a sequoia tree,
peace spreading within,
within.
I inherited his optimism and
his despair.
I inherited his aura.
His spirit dwells in the
walls of my house,
when I light the memorial candles
on Friday nights.
The light glows.
I walk through the shadows
feeling less alone.
Thank you is my prayer.
Thank you for a thousand mornings
of silence.
A thousand mornings of love.
Thank you on paper ships
in the bay,
and rose-colored dreams.
Thank you though struggles
and failures.
Thank you.
