Sunday Morning

The last drops of a steady spring-time rain, all through the night.

My songbird coming and going, singing and calling, returning.

Deep, rich, elixer. And a cup of coffee.

First reading: A Psalm of praise and reflection on the works of Juana Inéz de la Cruz.

First words: “Oh, God. Please.”

First steps: Toward the kitchen, straight, easy, filled with gratitude. Grandad’s cane? Where did I leave it?

Music: Piano.

Clock: Keeping time to itself. All wound up for nothing.

Thank you for another day . . .


Photograph “Resting, she holds her secrets.” © 2109 Timothy Waugh