by Theodora Goss
Sometimes I consider the gifts I’ve been given:
life, first of all, then health, which lets me stride
through the world thoughtlessly — a little too much so.
Talent, I think, but that’s for you to decide.
An education my grandmother never imagined,
although she would be shocked I can’t embroider
a flower on a tablecloth while sitting properly
in an immaculate parlor. I’d like to show her
what I can do, despite my deficiencies — capture
flowers in a poem: turn roses into metaphor.
Wealth and security my grandfather,
who saw Budapest bombed in World War II,
never knew — he never even drove a car.
The question, of course, is what to do with these gifts,
although as far as I know they’re freely given,
no payment asked, as we are given rain.
And language, which I put on like a coat
of magic feathers in which I can fly,
feeling as though I’m up there with the geese
or Icarus, in the grand, dangerous sky,
thankful for the air supporting me,
thankful to the giver of gifts, who is also
the mother of poets. She made me what I am,
so this poem is itself a prayer — an inadequate one.
None of these are things I deserve or earned,
so I guess the best return I can make is to be
what she made me, however imperfectly: the person
who wrote this poem — a speck of dust, but singing.
(The painting is The Reader by Arthur Meltzer.)
Too lovely and meaningful on many levels for words to express. How can I do that, I will send to you a feeling across the miles upon the wings of an eagle, the gentleness of the dove, the contentment of the grey duck sitting by the pond, the wag of a tail from Lilly carrying her sunfilled plastic bone and last but not least, the joy of sitting upon the green grass under a cluster of large trees as the waters of the Swan River slowly rise and fall.
That’s lovely. Thank you. 🙂
Beautiful..just perfect. Thank You