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Thanks is for giving
acknowledgment of space
and for receiving, not a one,
the better or the worse.

Joy has never been
a race, my friend,
nor poverty of spirit
some elevated state.
The one who finds
his summit obligates
no other to the climb.
Each to her center point
is called, once heeded,
called anew and higher.
Rising every day, it is
for me to choose
what’s risible.

There is no end to life
worth arguing, the spiny
pads of past provide
scant resting place
they are a lousy point
with none worth
driving home.

Your great defeat,
was it my victory
or otherwise?
Who knows? And more,
if thankful be, who cares?

Tin cups accrue no interest;
beggars rushing in with reason
battle for the space to rattle
what discomfits—
having rattled, feel no better.

To those ungrateful sounds
I slowly deafen, hearing less
what others say I must.

What’s cast upon these shores
for my receipt and yours, through
giving thanks, receiving it,
is endless gold, the roar
of spirited tranquility.


© Elaine Stirling, 2015