When we learn to give thanks we lack nothing;

our present from God’s boundless pitcher, filled,

overflowing; anxiety is stilled.

For each event transforms itself, like spring

a root, a leaf, a growing thing - to show

a truth. It uncurls, tastes ambrosia, sap.

It spreads its inner thought, its folded map.

We watch, to see it’s eucharist, to know

each event, a Lazarus shedding clothes

emerging from the hiding place, the dirt

of dead thing-ness, of mere factoid, inert.

Between a death or life, itself life chose.

But we? Are we, too, a form becoming?

Pupae, whence the dragonfly is coming?