Each New Morning



This I have often thought

While sitting at the kitchen table

Scribbling lines in ink from out my blood

How you, who I have known so well

Yet little know as well I should

Yet grant me grace on which I yet presume.


This grace—this kitchen table, these lines,

This pear I’ve yet to taste, this coffee

Brewed, this breath, and all by now

I should have been and yet am not—

Comes each new morning fresh as love

As sunlight, warms this room

Unworthy as I am now confessed.



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