A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Grasping.

      Reaching into the corners of my mind,

my memories; 	      clutching at straws. 

I am so sure I feel

the joy

     the gratitude,

so where is it? Why can I not name it now?

Is it merely that I allowed

the murkiness of fear

and shame and hurt

to cloud my vision

and of course the good remains

even though I cannot see it?

Or is it worse than I thought?

I bring up examples, but they feel weak.

Insipid. 

Every thought and memory I conjure

bears a caveat:

I am grateful for this, but…

I am grateful but only sometimes.

I am grateful but I wish this was different.

I am grateful but this should be a given.

It’s not that I should not be grateful 

that you do something I would expect of you,

but if the only gratitude I can muster is for minimum requirements

is the issue your performance

or my attitude?

There is only one of these two things

over which I have control

so I resolve to seek 

all the moments of joy and gratitude

to sift through the dirt, 

prospecting for gold and other gemstones,

and let us see if I do not make a profit.