In Gratitude

I thank him who set my splintered bone
and gave life bàck to flesh around my thumb
that I might once more hold hands with the world.
Who, with his dexterous hands and whetted eye,
gave back the fulcrum to my hand
so it could once more spin and twirl
and summon forth, perhaps, a swirl
of words that glide and curl
like fragrance from some unseen flower.
              Three years have passed now
              since the accident, three years
              since he with so much care reset
              those broken shards of thumb,
              the injury séems like dream of day.
              So though I seldom think of him,
              (for who holds memory in a thumb?)
              I sometimes spread and look unthinkingly
              upon the webbing of my hand
              where, within the vein that rivers down
              between the index and the thumb,
              I see once more the gratitude I owe to him.

(written ca. mid 2015)

For more about the poem, see notes.



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