Life is Fragile, Handle With Prayer

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.