Gratitude
The acacias’ branches
take the wind into their hair
and the mesquite holds its leaves
close, rattling its thorns.
Each evening we watch the sun
preparing to leave the mountain.
Red brushstrokes pass over hard stones
as the wind passes over wild broom
and sweeps seeds into darkness
above the formation called Finger Rock.
A bobcat emerges from the mesquite’s shadow.
I am indebted to him and the mourning dove
cooing on the wall, the chattering quail,
her eggs in the clay pot and the white toad listing
along the sandstone. There is no gratitude enough
for the rabbit’s leap or the lizard’s rush
up the adobe wall. I have only thankfulness
for desert rain, the blooming ironwood
and the sky’s pink and black pillars of fire.
take the wind into their hair
and the mesquite holds its leaves
close, rattling its thorns.
Each evening we watch the sun
preparing to leave the mountain.
Red brushstrokes pass over hard stones
as the wind passes over wild broom
and sweeps seeds into darkness
above the formation called Finger Rock.
A bobcat emerges from the mesquite’s shadow.
I am indebted to him and the mourning dove
cooing on the wall, the chattering quail,
her eggs in the clay pot and the white toad listing
along the sandstone. There is no gratitude enough
for the rabbit’s leap or the lizard’s rush
up the adobe wall. I have only thankfulness
for desert rain, the blooming ironwood
and the sky’s pink and black pillars of fire.
January / February 2023
Geraldine Connolly has published a chapbook and four poetry collections including Province of Fire and Aileron. She has taught at the Writers Center in Bethesda, Maryland, The Chautauqua Institution and the University of Arizona Poetry Center. She has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Maryland Arts Council, and Breadloaf Writers Conference and her work appears in many anthologies including Poetry 180: A Poem A Day for High School Students and The Sonoran Desert: A Field Guide. She lives in Tucson, Arizona.
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