(a response to Mary Oliver in her poem, “Messenger”)

You tell me my work in the world is gratitude

a bowing, a pointing to the sky

and noticing its blue

or the soft coat of a dog

or the timeless song of my children’s laughter

even as it fades

from memory, and you tell me to touch this heart’s ache

as it struggles to feel 

enough joy, enough pain, and wonder

as this world remembers when it was new and good

and beautiful.

And I disagree.

For my work is more than gratitude. It is remembering

his arms around me

and the celebration of birth and love and all things

good and pure.

And where home is—my work is remembering home and aching

for it to come again, back to me.