the fruit of gratitude - but not from the bible

to the world from which you keep straying, you are an all-the-more refreshing fruit of gratitude. 

the early summer teeth of the beasts graze the inside of the room meant to be shaken by relentless sleep, and at times the rusty valley water of the metropolis traverses it as well. in the old, warped mirror that opens the night like an window, a silent fruit from the beginning, a seasonless snow from the end, falls likewise lightly upon your shoulder and yet you do not notice, do not get hurt. 

this fact, without touching me, encourages me. it satisfies me with the juice of gratitude that passes by without the need for a recipient. even knowing that in due time the door will kick out these illusions along with itself into the dust-prone morning of young foliage. 

may the hairy danger always keep holding your hand. may the wicked prayers and select anxieties always move my lungs. and may the days not run by, the sound of gratitude nearly escape confirmation, and the bone ash of our repeatedly burning stories cook our deeds in the furnace of destruction's truth.