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.


This poem won first place in the BYU Studies 2016 Clinton F. Larson Poetry Contest.

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