Gratitude stains my hands
and licks my open wounds,
sets my heart to a blood pumping rhythm,
.
calls to a native joy to come up
alongside the savage beast of my pain.
Helps me breathe in and bleed out.
Both blood and breath a burning, stinging, salve.
I cannot live spitting the blood of bitter rage.
(Of course, that too is a salve-a temporary relief-a razor-blade-band aid creating more wounds and scars on application.)
Gratitude is the hard, heavy, way.
The muscle-building, aching way-
that clears the senses,
opens the wounds
for finished healing.
Raises up the native joy
to tame the wild beast.
