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Erin Alberda

Gulping deeply, wriggling out of my sweater of pride,
the one that I have woven each morning,
I opened my lips and called 
each little beauty around me by its name.

Thank you, Lord, for city sidewalks, 
with gum spots and steaming grates.
Nowhere else do I feel 
so at home in the shuffle.

Thank you for stillness,
and floors for pins to drop on
and ears to hear them.
In these moments, breath is monumental,
like thunder in my lungs.

Thank you for the faith of a mustard sapling,
and the pinstripe gold umbrella
you hold over me as monsoons of doubt
rush around my roots.

Thank you for pain in my body and mind,
so that in its absence,
I feel the sweetness
of honey or peonies,
of being whole.

Today I Prayed a Prayer of Gratitude