Without further comment... in his inclement, howling old age, Ahab’s soul, shut up in
I copied this out some time ago and forgot to record who wrote it. Still a good thought for Thanksgiving.
There is joy in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning.
in the chapel of eggs I cook
in the outcry from the kettlee
that heats my coffee
in the spoon and the chair
that cry “Hello there, Anne”
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
and I mean,
though often forget
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as he holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.
So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.
The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,