I wanted to write something beautiful about being thankful.

I wanted to share it today.

I had loved the fullness of the words I’d found last year, and shared for the US Thanksgiving holiday.

The lines had tumbled through my head as I’d stood at the kitchen window on holiday in Ireland, watching the light on the softness of the hill.

I wanted to write something similar this year: soft, grateful, tumbling, full.

Of course, the words wouldn’t come.

I think I had forgotten to remember that the form of the expression doesn’t matter.

It’s the thankfulness that matters.

It might come out in poetry.

It might come out in prose.

It might come out in a photograph.

lines of morning

It might come out in the sting of tears, noticing the moon above the scratch of trees against the palest bluest sky.

It might come out as you shut your tear-stung eyes, and whisper:

Thank you, thank you, thank you.