by Gideon Burton
As though it were a platitude, abstract,
a homily, a pleasantry, or thought,
commodified into a thing that's bought
or traded, something needed to transact
one's business, lubricant for social tact.
Perhaps, to some degree. Yet I am caught
within a web of wonder: moments fraught
with suns and thunder, atoms coiled and cracked
as moonlit evenings open their array
of silent supernovas mutely splayed.
In gratitude I find that ballast scope
that centers me in patient, latent hope.
In gaping thanks, routine as meals or sleep,
I'm safe from depths in fathoms brightly deep.
Photo: flickr - jmtimages