Barricades

What barricades the door to thanks-giving?
What lids the eyes until I am ripe-round with the pain, with the bitter?
Anger throws the bolt. Control tosses the key.
Fear ripples and the eyes snag on the possibilities.
Grief keens loud, leaning hard upon that door, hindering.
And lies snake and stain hearts once ripe to opening.
And all the effort to barricade, to protect hearts rent through. That wearies.
And eyes grow dim as we slump upon the floor, blocking.
Doors. Hearts.
From thanks-giving. From thanks-living. From Life.
And so. Here we are.
Bitter. Broken. Thank-less. Life-less.
And we wonder. Where is... the joy?
We have forgotten.
There is a key. To unlock. Open wide. Release.
Give.
Thanks.
Offer.
Gratitude.
And barricades topple.
And the eyes open wide. To Life.
We become ripe-round with Him.
And we are thank-full.
Full of the impossible.
And the door swings wide.