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.
