Grateful for Poetry and Hummingbirds

A little poem for a little sleep

Photo by Chris Boland on Unsplash

One hundred days of gratitude. Fifty-three.

So, let's talk about today,
so you didn’t really find yourself—
in any sort of way

in stateofgrace.

But instead somewhere lifelove has lost some of its taste, so just in case
the sun rises again, and you aren’t in

Gilbert’s Pittsburg or Paris or Ferlingetti’s Foggy City by the Bay
(G-d knows Cohen’s Hydra with saltsimple love is still a pastlifetime away)

—

So let's say
it's not your reddead eyes and the southernsky
is still somehow somewhat grey.

So you said you’d write so you have to fight
or have the same 4-year sadself to say.

So the blood
on the news
is beginning to spray.

So they pray
so still

—

Be still
with or without that little white pill
it’s thy will
it’s life it's okay.

Not even a seaofescape could
save badyou now
when you finally hear the hummingbird say:

change
is still
on
its
way.