We eulogize our parents, kneel before teachers,
Pay obeisance to idols, and praise every benefactor...
Write poetry on our love, lyrics to our heartthrob,
Elegies in the heartache and play Endymion for a Selene,
Making rainbows out of our pale inane existence.
But when it comes to thanksgiving, some never figure on our list,
And of the few, we are prudent, tongue-tied, and grossly inadequate.
Connate with this corpus from conception
Oh my senses and sensors! You have made me what I am.
But for you I would never have travelled the distances I had,
Nor perceived and indulged in this spectacular world!
Oh, me!
It grieves to leave, yet a new stint is equally tempting.
And before I am dragged out of this housing reluctantly
And watch dumbly, you being impaled and consigned
Let me thank you with all my heart,
Dear senses and dear limbs!
And as a tribute to you, dear frame,
I shall leave behind ... the name!
With my plucky granddaughter, I'm ne'er bored.
She saunters at connate emblems and depth.
And the way the fay sway with her.
Five-year-old darts on slight span.
Brilliant, brittle crane drum,
Tall, hefty gist sight,
Pitch in limns burns.
With swish rifts.
Wingbeats
wheeze.
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