Let us be grateful to God

It is my birthday,
& there is a bouquet
of white Dogwood flowers

sitting in the sound hole
of Grandpa's old guitar.
I hear three chords strum,

the gentle breeze
rubbing the tree limbs
in Mom's front yard.

I watch my dog Turbo
howl at a gray squirrel
perched on a telephone wire

& I remember the smell
of Aunt Mary's funeral,
the blossoming daisies.