How to say “Thank You”

First
There must be a peeling back
Of
the eye lids.
A wide-open beholding,
A 240 second
steady
Gaze.
What did it cost
To give the thing
for which
you want to say Thank You?

Take those
Garden roses for example,
I ask myself,
How long
did
It take
those tendrily
Roots
To find a fasten-Clump of soil
and hold
Their place
Long enough to slurp
Slurp
The pay-dirt slosh?

How many earth worms?
Oooching
Oooching
In the dark city of
Decay
Hades lair
To keep the
Ground moist but not
Drowning
To release the nitrogen
To ready the gentle shoots for
Sunlight.

To know
The stump of that new rose
Was cut
With rusted clippers,
Lowe’s orange,
Left in the rain
Then barely oiled
Hack-hack
By some angry, unknowing hand
But
Even pruned indelicately
She was meant to bloom.

It takes no time
To
smell a rose.
I smell them on my frantic
“get in the car!!!
No, the other side!
Do you have your backpack?
Water bottle?
Shoes! Jacket!”
Liturgy of goings and comings
(Oh there’s the rose scent!)
And off
To the off-place
Of harried-busy
Bronze-metal attempts
At doing.

So many roses I’ve
Smelled
Without stopping.

What does it take
To say Thank You?

I unsheathe
The fresh blades
And hold
The burgundy and lime leaves
In my hands
Ruffling their downy
Growth.
Snip-snip
Flip-snip
Collecting bruised buds and spent blooms,
Leaves punctured by
Caterpillar
Teeth.

In 3 days time
She will groan
Sigh
And push out new feathers.
I will apologize
For cutting her. I didn’t want to.
But we know
It makes her grow.
I breathe her in.

Thank you.