thanksgiving poem

You know its so easy to start a thanksgiving poem
With some soapy statement like I'm grateful for
And then start making a pious list of all the things one is grateful for:
Autumn leaves, and purring kitties
But could I really say I'm grateful for this headache that peppers my menopausal days?
Or that I'm grateful for my first thanksgiving without my son?
I'm grateful that my son and I are like virtual strangers to each other
And we give each other acute social anxiety?

But what is being grateful, really?
Its being full of great.
And gratitude is clearly a great attitude
Which comes from being full of great.
It begs the question: Am I really full of great?

And that question eternally winds me back to the answer:
an attitude adjuster like no other.

What I'm full of
Is the ever-evolving, infintesmial
life force, god-force
Messianic power, climbing up that spiral staircase
And breaking out through me
Like a shower of fiery autumn leaves,
Falling on cold hard earth,
Like a silky purr ball of ginger love
Sleeping on my head
Like the Northern lights
Lighting up my tiny little wigwam
Reminding me that all I am is god, god, god god, god
Oh God, is that all there is?

And that makes me feel great-full.