Feast today on simple things
the chalk-colored sky at dawn,
the face of a loved one teleported from far away,
the newspaper article about the couple that lived 66 years together
and then died days apart.
Feast on the memories of your father’s broad shoulders
and your grandmother’s wrinkled hands, skin delicate as pearl.
Bring on the bread, bring the wine.
Welcome all the tastes—sour, bitter, and sweet.
Savor a song, savor your breath.
Feast today on this remarkable life,
this wild, abundant, unfathomable life.
Sit. Eat. Say a small prayer (nothing fancy)
for the benefit of all beings
great and small.
Give thanks to the giver
whose gift keeps on giving.
Listen to the whir of the November wind
and whisper
the simplest of sounds,
indistinguishable from breath itself,
“amen.”
