There is too much to be thankful for.

The goodness of so many years

should be clearer; each face and word,

each discovery and delight delineated,

so that all may be praised accordingly,

with emotions appropriate to each thing.

But this much accumulated grace

is indistinct, it can’t be sorted.

It is like trying to pinpoint precisely why

sharp air in autumn pleases me,

or why, in the wee hours, hard rain

on the roof brings me acquiescing

to the fact of death.

There is too much to be thankful for.

Therefore let this accusation,

that you are too much for me,

stand for now in the place of praise.