Through the letterbox

The attic windows

are tinged with silver  raindrops.

I meant to write of thanksgiving

and now I'm a day late.

I wanted to tell you of the new maps,

the words

and the feelings and the names of all

those I love and am thankful for.

Then the realisation that the books are not

big enough for all the words

to be written.

Enough to say

that my love for you all

sits quietly on  my wrist like

a precious pearl bracelet,

glowing softly.

Tonight,

over the glittering rooftops,

listen.

To hear my whisper,

of thanks.