I am thankful; I am thankful.
I am thankful of certain poets
whose light, like a supple tongue,
finds its way into my dark cell
and spells the sky on the stones.

I am thankful for the tree-sitters
like Julia Butterfly Hill
who find themselves in a pine tower
high over the river in a forested valley.
The distant haze like a wistful trumpet.

I am thankful for my own heart;
my prisoner, my pet, my window
on forests and poems and quietude.
I have abused you so with lies,
betrayals, cowardice, small false passions

petty, demeaning desires
that overwhelmed my higher self ...
but not finally! — that I shout —
no, not finally! For a forest chorus,
a canopy of poets

a shaft of light, a turning bolt
of faith, leaps from this tomb
to shock Perdition and to delight Heaven —
lightning from the fundament of Love.
Thank you, thank you, thank you

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