It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris,
it could be weeds
in a vacant lot,
or a few small stones;
just pay attention, then patch
a few words together
and don’t try to make them elaborate.
This isn’t a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence
in which another voice may speak.
The past few years I notice things
I walked by before.
The fleeting moments become more precious,
time pours through my fingers.
It doesn’t have to be the blue iris,
but today it is.
I fall headlong into their depths,
Oh so grateful.