Giving Thanks to the Butterknife Gods

Written during Alix Klingenberg's Generative Poetry Circle on Sat, a poem of gratitude. I literally wept as I was finishing it yesterday morning. And continued to weep as I reread it and polished it.

Wow.
I have opened my eyes again.
I will thank the walls.
Thank the windows.
Thank the basin.
Thank the water.

In the mirror
I have seen myself again
and I thank the mirror. 
I thank my teeth
I thank the morning.

And the sun. 
I thank the sun!

And the bagel, 
and the butter, 
the buttery warmth
of my February kitchen.

I thank the toaster gods,
and the percolated coffee gods,
and the slender, gleaming fingers 
of the breadknife gods, 
what a fantastic life.

If I could,
I would kneel down,
prostrate myself
flat-faced to the grassy ground,
in a deep valley with no people in it,
an ivory palace where a gentle 
albatross queen 
might dub me worthy.

But I cannot kneel, 
nor genuflect,
nor even stretch tall enough to
sweep the rafters like a bird would do,
like a bird who would fly into the sun 
and open its mouth for the living coals 
to be placed within its heart
so that it burns down
the long living daylights 
warming every corner, 
every willing heart.

I nod to the bird,
thank you thank you, 
and the bird says– 

How wondrous is your flightless world!
So rich in pillows and apples, 
so rich in lamplight and corrugated metals,
and whatever love is, 
whatever this creamy nougat is,
this divinity.
What is this thing you call 
butter rum ice cream?