wish I wish seek
life learners start again yes
Late gratitude not too late finding
gifts yes what if?
yes is it possible?
Why do we have to be grateful for our misfortunes? Why do we have to look on the bright side when we are down? Why do we have to say thank you when we feel we aren’t where we should be? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
I was thinking of the word gift, yesterday. How it asks nothing from us.
I think of the times I have failed and had set backs (believe me, there have been many!)and then I think of and all the second chances, third chances, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh chances I have been given. I think of goals not reached and then I think of open possibilities.
I think of free air to breathe, chocolate to eat, times where I have so many choices that I don’t know what to do. Even if life hasn’t gone exactly to plan, how could I not say thank you? How lucky to be able to try and try again.
And there is ice cream, and the northern lights, plays to see, songs to sing, stories to write, places to go, poetry to read, wrongs to right, languages to learn, pictures to draw, mistakes to make, stars to watch, babies to coo over, losses to cry over, chances to start over.
It makes one positively giddy!
We left it late, now we’re up to no good
on this wild, wild night in this wild, wild wood.
Night bird calls and the sun-shy follow
over moon soaked hills to our blackberry hollow.
We floundered for a while in the water-lilied waters
with the moon struck brothers and their lunar-addled daughters.
A night spell is cast through the tempest swept valley
we’re not all here ‘cause we’ve all gone doolally.
Tell me, how would it feel to take fistfuls of flowers
and fling them to the winds where they float for hours
mingling with our minds as we stand stock still
purling round our thoughts in a merry, airy rill?
Don’t doubt our veracity, our lunarian capacity.
Dance a midnight tango through the will-o-wispy fogs
to the sounds of a chorus of the crik-creaky frogs.
We improvise our dinners and our puddings are delectable
our sonnets are impure and our art not quite respectable.
If you find us you can join us but we won’t be where we should
we’ll be dawdling in the deeps of the wild, wild wood.