In the early morning, when the birds
are still drowsily stirring on branches,
we fumble through the ordinary moments:
brushing teeth, the kettle\'s familiar hiss.
We pick up fragile things, porcelain cups,
the rustle of yesterday’s unread papers,
and there, in the quiet, a shadowy truth
hovers like dust motes in a beam of light.
Our lives, so easily upended, seem to sway
on the thin threads of whispered hopes,
every step, a cautious negotiation
with an invisible, capricious reality.
So perhaps prayer is the glue, the gentle balm,
the sinew binding our fragile attempts
at stitching beauty from the uncertain fabric
of finite days and wayward gusts of time.
It is not the fervent shout to heaven,
but a soft murmur through trembling lips,
a recognition of our glass-blown essence,
cradled tenderly in the mindful hand.