Dear Day

Good morning, dear day.
Good morning, grey skies, purple leaves, wet fields, fading grass.
I am snug inside, with a heart curled up, warm and sound. And somehow, I remember today, how God goes with me, in my skin (so close!). God is in my coffee cup, and fingertips, and jumping up at me, from the pages of this open book.

I am a wave. Blown and tossed. It's true. But isn't that just the point? That we are all waves, some days. Crashing white foam, whirlpool forming, lodestar obscuring? I am a drowning machine.
Isn't that just the point?

Some days, he says, "Peace."
And like tired children, we sink: grateful and stilled, and rest. Calm surface.
And wake to dear days, still as shimmering summer pools.

Good morning.