thanksgiving     

To make a garden out of weeds, to cultivate the soil, to bring order to the wilderness of cities, to weave a perfect rhythm or carefully measured line, to ruthlessly expunge the wan and the delicate, to still the mind and make from desire a cold and careful music, clean and balanced as a snowflake — this is what you want, and what you constantly and inevitably fall short of. Weeds and weeping overtake you, longing and error hold you close as a lover or the ultimate dust. You are frustrated to be so thoroughly owned by suffering and desire.

And yet, on days like this, you are moved to give thanks. You are grateful for the roughest music, and even the coarsest handful of earth tastes like good bread.

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