Resurrection

Lots o' poems lately.

Resurrection
(For Wendell Berry)

She tried to be grateful for every moment.
It rarely worked. It should be enough
to smile after her second cup of coffee.
Why should she be expected to greet every day
with a maniacal grin?
And joy at work?
Half the time everyone, herself included,
seemed stupid, self-absorbed, and sad.
She found no comfort in the sunshine
or rainy days for that matter.
Given the choice between
a walk next to the Mississippi at dusk
and a nap, she would nap.
Relationships were affairs conducted after too many martinis,
discarded quickly the next day.
Resurrection was fine for poets, mystics, or aesthetics,
but she was pragmatic to a fault.
Sometimes, though, she would catch sight
of a fox in the garden,
or hear a poem on the drive to work.
Without realizing, she held her breath
offering a moment of inexpressible gratitude.