Thanksgiving’s coming yet the words get in the way
Of the gratitude I feel for my sleepy eyes
All I do is wish, wordlessly, and the lids rise
Likewise the hands, feet, and the marvelous mouth
Keeps opening though adding little to what we’re about
Yet what does gratitude do for my friend who’s dying
Who goes on slipping into non-living
Despite my prayers, and all my thanksgiving
And this whole past year this mortal mess
That the virus has made of us?
For that should we be thankful for what we see
For the limits of our powers, for the decline of the body
Of course I’m happy, even ecstatic, to be alive
Yet surrounded by death maybe our thanks should be qualified.