Other Riches

He brings me blankets folded into shapes
in the breakfast-time. I decipher
these sweet blobs all day,
cook new meals in winter
from the racing images I see.
He - then, and my food are brighter,
then I sing, standing up and he
hears a Thank You not to him
but to the sly hidden things, 
free moving in the air, limb to limb
and sparks between, I thank the air which means
I thank the world which made a spark like him,
folding blankets for a gift that gleams,
the world, where any two things, 
close enough, are more than two, 
but not a tidy Three, but something new 
and made of others, totally its own.


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