Holding the day lightly, here
at its commencement, clean page
not crammed full of plans,
I want to leave large room
for God to be with me.
Not as the persistent weed growing
in an impenetrable wall,
or the penny in a parking lot that I
acknowledge but do not take with me,
or the perfunctory blessing said before I
mindlessly eat my food.
Today I want to marvel at sky
with the wonder of my elderly friend
who praised it from the hospital window.
I want to breathe into a tight muscle,
fully aware of my body’s shape in that moment
on my yoga mat. I want to savor the silence
before the day shakes itself awake.
I want to see all who cross my path,
sensing the energy of communion
with the whole human family.
I want to be fully present to food and friends and flowers,
and the feel of wind on my skin, and to know,
in every breath, every blink, every beat of heart,
that God is with me.