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by David D. Horowitz
From opal-topaz dawn to rose-maroon
Dusk, over hilltops near horizon, moon
Declines and re-ascends. I've prayed for help
And thank a million kindnesses for health.
How close I came to being deadly headline
Or standing starving cold in breadline.
I err and flub and fumble‐no claim I'm saint.
Today, then, gratitude not complaint.