GRATITUDE ONE. In the coffee shop on the upper Westside The light grey and bleak as it’s been for weeks during this monsoon winter Icicles and sloppy snow gritty and sharp Watching the passerby who gingerly step over ice floes soggy sidewalks Heads down in wooly wraps masks on expressions hidden. This is now the season of wars of invasion and horror I blanch from daily death tolls and tragic losses weep for the children and the dead The refugees piling across the borders bereft broken and numb I heard the female journalists speak from their invaded country They talk of their village square Their cafes gone, their guideposts shattered, shards and bombed ruins where their ancient town once stood. TWO. But yet gratitude flows in me now floods cascades a caramel glow To sit intact and unmolested warm sipping brewed coffee at Cafe 82 Hunger satisfied with a fresh turkey pita and home fries. To be able to enter this familiar place with heat and electricity not a crater where it once stood To be able to write these words and still do my work without fear of jackboots and doors kicked in To know loved ones are still safe still alive in these perilous days. To be able to reflect on this day now and the days that have gone before To think of my husband whose strong and welcoming back has now become shaped to my front so integrally when we spoon that we are like one continual organism who loves me like maple syrup loves pancakes with fierce and total loyalty who I can cry with, laugh with and yell at safely and my wild and smart and passionate friends who don’t always love wisely but feel and act so deeply working to repair the world. Gratitude small small small nothing major no mansion no yacht no Nobel Prize but ALIVE ALIVE in this world of chaos and strife and still be able to say I am.