I Thank You

This morning the Internet is ripe and plump with wonderful tweets and status updates and blog posts full of gratitude. So I can’t let the opportunity pass to share a beloved (and possibly quite familiar) poem by one of my favorite poets.

I’m grateful for his work, which inspired the 10-year-old me to realize the power of the English language — and to recognize that I could have a whole lot of fun with it.

Like all those other people out there sharing their gratitude today, I have much to be thankful for. I’m blessed with two fabulous daughters, a bounty of close friends, a loving family, and lots of other good stuff that would take too long to list.

I’m also grateful for an audience that’s supportive and encouraging. Thank you for reading.

Here’s wishing you a lovely and blessed Thanksgiving.

I Thank You

e. e. cummings

I thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday;this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)



Trashy Dresser

I’m a single mom, which means that all of the typical “guy chores” around the house get done by yours truly. That includes taking out the trash, which in our city consists of not one but three containers: the garbage, the recycling and the yard waste. (I’m in charge of the mowing, weed-whacking and landscaping, too.)

I’d add it to my daughters’ list of Chores They Never Do Anyway, except I always forget about it, and for some reason they’re not stepping up to remind me.

So it’s up to me to do it myself — if and when I remember. Which is usually at the last minute. Or last second, really.  And it ain’t pretty.


Trashy Dresser

Friday morning
without warning
I hear rumbling from afar.

I wake and wonder,
“Is it thunder?”
Or…a plane? A train? A car?

As it grows nearer,
it gets clearer
that the trash truck’s on my street.

That’s when I doubt
that my can’s out;
my response is oh-so fleet.

Downstairs I go,
small cans in tow,
to dump ‘em all in one big bag.

Outside I hear
noises grow near —
time’s of essence, must not lag!

Quickly I’ve
run down the drive,
dragging my big can behind.

Gravel scrunching,
loudly crunching –
Oh, the neighbors? They won’t mind.

One last swerve
and can is curbed
as trash truck screeches to a halt.

Down hop trash guys,
squinting their eyes
at some visual assault.

Seems they’re staring
‘cause I’m wearing
my old nightgown, gray and frayed —

topped by bathrobe
that has mellowed
to a semi-lilac shade —

plus my sweatpants
pulled out by chance
from the dirty laundry pile —

And on my feet?
the look’s complete
with my fluffy slipper style.

It’s not the first time
that I’ve found I’m
rushing my stuff to the street.

Somehow with this
I’m quite remiss;
remembering seems too hard a feat.

It’s no disgrace,
I now embrace
this trait, and thus my neighbors know

that in my ‘hood,
I’m always good
for a Friday morning fashion show.


©2012 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz