I glide my sandaled feet over cool fescue grass
that is recently dappled with crimson maple leaves
as I ponder if I am feeling the correct amount of gratitude.
Appreciation is fleeting
if I allow the assassins of peace to redirect my interest.
Am I looking for something I will always want?
My overgrown garden craves rest
and a return to the contemplation of its next magnum opus.
13 September 2024, a Friday
Ericka Atchley-Sisk, Hardwick
This poem was written for the Verse-Village celebration of April Poetry Month.
