Whether my hands

Whether my hands are folded in prayer
or not
there is a grateful steepled expression
in each
movement of my breathing chest.

The rising and falling crest
of each wave
is a tender tide that fills
a tearful ocean of gratitude
that spills
at odd intervals on the edge
of a not so distant shore.

Setting sail upon a stormed sea
i need
only reach out in distress
to feel the calming balance
cloaked in sunset shades
of hidden blessings.

Midnight blues deepen
and weep
tossing my worries to hasten
and fly,
for how can i not receive
the gifts
when they are as pearls
strung across the never-ending see?

mj 11.22.16 poem & photo