Gratefulness While Walking

On my morning walks I find
it fitting to number
all that I am grateful for as my dog
finds the perfect plot of land
to defecate.

My eyes are drawn to the trees
and dawn coloring the clouds,
a holy riot of color that
my mind never memorizes
and hardly even sees.

I'm grateful for the grass and flowers,
for brick and stone,
for clay that becomes brick but used to be stone,
that wants to be bone;
for the grain in wood,
for the good in grain,
for the heart in vain searching for the
dawn in the clay, in the bone, in the day.

I'm grateful for the dust I was,
for the ash I'll be.
I love the smell of the earth,
the song of the bee, the song of the wind,
the scream of the mind. The search
for peace. The wonder of time.

Mostly I'm grateful for what is great. For the
glory of being thankful, and the ease of
shedding anger, no matter how late.
Or early, for the grass is greenest
at dawn, and tallest before it's gone.