Gratitude sleeps in a shoebox underneath your bed, tucked between 
letters from old friends. She slips into a room with rays of sunlight.
She perches atop candlesticks and flickers with the flames. Gratitude 
wears crocheted sweaters and knitted scarves, both handmade
and hand-me-downs. Each night, she lounges underneath a quilt 
patchworked with memories: scenes of laughter and joy. When it snows, 
gratitude wakes up early to sled the neighborhood hills. She revels 
in the snowflakes, watching the intricate patterns land like planes 
on the runway of her mittens. She searches for four-leaf clovers 
in the green meadows of life, she splits a clementine in half to share 
with friends. Her shoelaces are always double-knotted, bunny-eared, 
like her older sister taught her. She is fishnets and sequins, an invisible string, 
a dreamcatcher. She shines like light bouncing off a disco ball. She builds 
sandcastles just to knock them down. She waves pinwheels in the wind 
and blows on dandelion seeds to make a wish. She soars with the sound of music 
through the air and into the hearts of listeners. Gratitude blooms wild 
as daffodils along Rock Creek Parkway. She is as fleeting 
as the cherry blossoms lining the Tidal Basin. 
You can find her in any room or any place–– 
you just have to remember to look
for gratitude.