Little moments of gratitude

I pick an orange from a wicker basket

and place it on the table to represent the sun.

Then down at the other end

a blue and white marble becomes the earth

and nearby I lay the little moon of an aspirin.

 I get a glass from a cabinet, open a bottle of wine,

then I sit back in a ladder-backed chair,

a benevolent god presiding over a miniature creation myth,

and I began to sing a homemade canticle of thanks

for this perfect little arrangement,

for not making the earth to hot or cold

not making it spin too fast or slow

so that the grove of orange trees and the owl become possible,

not to mention the rolling wave, the play of clouds, geese in flight,

and the Z of lightening on a dark lake.

Then I fill my glass again and give thanks for the trout,

the oak, and the yellow feather, singing the room full of shadows,

as sun and earth and moon circle one another in their impeccable orbits

and I get more and more cockeyed with gratitude.

Billy Collins,  As if to Demonstrate an Eclipse

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