Thanks

 

 

 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.