Almost a Psalm, about Inheritance

Lord, without you, it would be easy to live with no sense of loss— to miss the wanton war cry of the surf; the stippled, thirsty surface of this heirloom soap dish; the haphazard scattering of light lingering on mother’s souvenirs, such things she meant to carry the whole way home to you. Praise what’s wild in these trees. What hunkers down for winter, clothes itself with more of itself. More praise for the absolute and utter darkness of these trees and these four walls. All spoils. I do not want them.