Thanksgiving

This morning, fog strikes  
even the centuries-old trees dumb.
There is nothing tender,
no great humility about my face anymore.
Was there ever?
At this hour, I love only words
that spark in air like filaments
of spider webs, wise as rooftops,
healthy as shadows on the wall.
I’m unworthy of whatever spills
out of this anthill, I know that much.
Prayer, gratitude, tears —
years brief and long,
a mist tightened around
my remembering.