To be blessed, I always thought,
was like being able to walk on water.
A miracle of positive thinking.
Safe while everyone around you sinks
or falters, arms and legs thrashing like cymbals,
while you still hear the sun’s bright orchestral chords.
To be blessed, on the other hand,
was what the sales clerk said about the day you should have
as she wrapped up your holiday gifts and tied the little bows.
To be blessed was to have your best friend of 45 years
remember your name again as you walk with her
through once lovingly planted lush gardens.
I can still see her lavender and lupine,
laurel and lobelia. I shade my eyes against
the shine of orange koi darting past lotus blossoms.
To be blessed is to see two eagles nesting in a treetop
as I drive home from running dull errands,
listening to radio chatter about terrifying times to come.
To be blessed is to listen to Miles Davis
Kind of Blue and Sketches of Spain
offer reveries of calm and cool.
To be blessed is knowing that even the fierce rage
that fills my body like fluid fire climbing up wooden walls
might be tamped down a bit if I took a walk in my woods
down past the stream and the little waterfall.
As my boots kick leaves away, I head for the pond
where I will think about walking on water.