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.