I’ve been thinking about this word for three days. I saw it in an article in a magazine and have since composed at least three maybe decent but different poems about the word “watchful.” None of these musings did I write down. All the words are now lost. Except the one I kept my eye on — watchful. I need to write it down.
I had an email from a friend saying that she doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving because of the native American experience. Of course, she said, of course. I guess I can see that, but I LOVE this holiday. Friends and family get together, take maybe a minute to be grateful for another year on the planet. The stores shut down for a day, we actually have to talk to one another as people and not as consumers. How many cultures have harvest festivals, I wonder? Doesn’t the multicultural aspect of harvest celebration make it okay? Please? The world is torn apart, gratitude is a carpet we stand on to give us solid footing when we reach for hope, that thing with feathers. So elusive.
We need to be watchful of gratitude least it slip away like an unwritten poem leaving us empty-handed.