There is a homeless man who spews poems about what he sees and He finds joy somehow. His bed is green grass and His roof is made of countless stars. He has a beard he twirls and He has a story that I have no courage to ask on. He tells us "Hello" with a smile and I say it back trembling in contemplation because. . .
He sits on a hill as others dock their boats and He looks down making poems from life with no pen, just words out of mouth spilled over a warm day in September. He loves these days and he always sees them through, with no air conditioning or heater to flip on.
I listened to him, "ahoy there, chaparral, yellow be the day..." and the engines of boats and trains and vessels and when I thought that we had spent our time all gone. . .
The sun set behind the trees, like fire through branches spreading as we passed, racing us, that bright and shining star that seems to always win. Then it sunk behind the horizon, like an anchor slow in motion falling and baby on my chest took a deep breath and I was thankful unto God:
for river cities that never sleep,
a father-in-law (who I call Dad) letting us borrow his boat ,
the pink that blends into many shades of blue at sunset,
an hour at the river turning into 7 and more fun than we knew what to do with,
the laugh my husband and I got out of our 2 year old Ainsley eating a dogie biscuit off the ground in Old Town Sac. . .
shade in breezy places when the sun is hot and blasting down.
Family, what would I be without you?
I'm joining Ann of Holy Experience to count the blessings and yank out thankful. . .