Considering that in life which is genuine and uncontrived.
Connections, Comradeship, Cores.
All that is a not fantastical task,
like transforming the overstuffed, white city pigeon into spotless snow-colored dove.
All that never begs of molding, meddling, manipulating;
like the constantly unsatisfied who reshapes, reshapes, exhausts the same lump of clay.
All that is so pure it exceeds the best imaginable thing,
like the realization of inherent vitality on an apparently dead winter day.
All that never beckons for or demands an embrace,
like the individual who kneads and kneads, working the offered hand to a pulp.
All that my arms have already encircled,
so natural – without hesitation, without false perception.
All that never dictates evaluation of worth.
All that my arms have already encircled,
All that nurturingly embraces back.
All that is genuinely pure,
All that is purely uncontrived.
Beyond explicable gratitude.