Justin Hamm offers his own simple philosophy of thanksgiving and celebration in a poem that will ring true for many.
Poem For Saturday
It was just one of those days
when the philosophy came easy
as whistling in the shower
and every doorway I stepped through
was a metaphor.
Early September and already
a few leaves turning to rust.
Seemed like a good day to wonder
why nobody ever taught me
how to tie my own necktie.
Like a good day to send a message
to all the people I love
in the afterlife
and unpack my warehouse of blessings
one silent thank-you at a time.
To shoot photos of empty park benches
beneath half-open windows
cut into buildings on the brink of collapse.
If ever there was a day, friend,
to fish and catch nothing
but the glint of sunlight on your hook
and a few slippery notions about living,
then what I’m telling you, this day was it.
And I did it. I did it all.
But most of all, what I did was
I refused to be hurried.
In fact, I was about as efficient
as the process of erosion,
and when I came home,
in late afternoon, and happy
as a lit lamppost,
I did not once touch that book
in which the overdegreed genius
informs us that consciousness,
that the human soul,
is no more than grand illusion.
Instead I spent the evening
caring only for the loveliness
of my wife’s hair tucked behind her ears
and the almost imperceptible music
of my little daughter’s sneakers
swishing through the beautiful
high unruly backyard grass
I’ve no plans of mowing anytime soon.
First published in Stoneboat
Editor’s Note: Justin Hamm has published with us before. Read his very popular “In Case You Were Wondering.”
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