412: Words Were Changing


I'm Tracy K Smith. And this is the down. There are so many times lately where I find myself surprised by gratitude. Like Monday when from my bedroom in the back of the House I heard a loud booming thud. It was a sound so deep and resounding. It could only have signalled disaster. As, a mountain had been blasted to rubble. Amir, mile away. I heard the sound and I felt it, too. I believe my house leapt a little as if in fright. When I went up front to check on what had happened I saw that a thirty year old pine tree had been toppled by wind in my front yard. and must have been fifty or more feet, tall, and now the thickest heaviest part of it spanned my driveway across my yard and out into the street. The tree had miraculously fallen away from our house in the opposite direction to which it had previously been listing. When it fell, it had lopped off several branches of another young tree. My daughter had rigged up with rope and plank for sitting in. The fallen tree had landed in exactly the spot, where until an hour earlier, my own car had been parked. And the only reason I thought to move my car was because I'd been overtaken by the whim to run and unnecessary errand. Taking in all of this evidence of providential luck, my heart and head and body thronged with the words, thank you, thank you to God and the tree and the winds and the particular laws of gravity and the bike shop that had texted me that afternoon, and not a day earlier to go pick up the child's bicycle. That would be waiting for me outside the store. Thank you to atticus for finishing his math early. Thank you to the weekly Zoom meeting? That meant I was safely at my desk when the boom occurred. Thank you to video games and rain which had kept my children indoors? Thanks for the chance to feel not put upon or bird, and but actively an expertly cared for. Today's poem is. Leads were changing. By Miller Obermann. Thanked for kindness I said. You're welcome and welcome spun back to what it meant before. Welcome come in in accord with my will. Come into warmth. You are wanted were waited for. Welcome to these arms spread out exposing the bearers heart. You are well come, it is well. You have come for me. And if night swallows us, it will be well. We will be welcome. The Gates swing wide. The bridge ARC's tenderly up over the river I laid. A path pruned trees for your body to pass through. My bread, your bread, my rafters, yours timber above our heads or to float on. I fell asleep by the fire near a bag of barley, sweet smoke, and the kettles belly rounded iron forged on a day. No sharpness cut the mind of its maker. There were other days for sharpness edges. It is important to know the difference of days, and this was not one. The slowdown is a production of. Public. In partnership with the poetry, Foundation. New.

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