Who Am I Not to Be Blessed?

Chris Jimmerson

In moonlit shadows,

At the edge of night-darkened oak trees

I see it.

Across sunny pathways,

In the buzzing of insects, amongst the flowering forest greenery,

I hear it.

From the touch of ones loved,

The embraces of those gone before me,

I feel it.

In the poems I love dearly,

The songs that speak to my heart,

The sculpture that catches my imagination,

The discoveries still to be made,

I sense it.

It is in the fire of distant suns,

The cool drip of waters,

The slight chill in the breeze,

The laughter of children, no matter what their age, old and young, grown and still small;

It is the breath of life, the stardust of souls, the magic of remembrance.

Who am I not to surrender to it in gratitude?

Who am I to not be blessed?