The tipping point at year’s eleventh hour
I stop mid-rush to slice a piece of grace
and raise a glass to beneficent power.
Yet all this pausing keeps me from the chase
of things more lovely and things simply more.
I’m told I lack and so therefore I must buy
the overflow of someone else’s store.
Oh, for a barn that reaches to the sky!
So high my thoughts, yet staring at the floor
I see another world and wonder why
my world, so rich, so full, became so small.
In true thanksgiving, I must now adore
an empty barn, a heart that cannot fly,
and bleeding hands that hold my all in all.