When I Think Of All The Future Graces

When I think of all the future graces, For which I am supposed to feel so grateful- It feels like a huge, sticky cloud Has obscurred everything worthwhile And sucked out whatever gladness there might have been. I begin to understand how the aged Might start to feel an unholy resentment At the dawning of each successive day, Which comes whether you desire it or not- Even if there is nothing left to look ahead to. Still, if all my blood somehow oxidized tomorrow, Or the flesh crept off all the bones stealthily To lie in rippled pools on the ground (like the way witches melt in certain well known tales) Know that the corporeal remains Would still send up a reverberating joy- The unending gratitude of the song of matter.