This, then, is when the thanks arrive,

a flood of peace and joy, overflowing its bounds,

seeping through steepled fingers

to bring life again to a once-parched heart.

No intonation need be sung or said,

but a silent praise wells up from within.

Eyes open, I observe the curve of a bluebird’s head

as it poses to prepare for territorial battle

from within a tangle of autumn-bare

branches in a tree in my backyard;

no kneeling, closed-lidded prayer stance here,

instead I worship the artistry in all I survey.

I feel as territorial as the bluebird looks:

this is my faith that I’ve fought

so hard to maintain through refining fires that threatened

to sear my soul to ash;

I want to claim the victory now,

as if it were mine and mine alone to claim (though I know it’s not),

and to revel in the torrents of gratitude that are pouring over me

because I have survived.