a pilgrim’s doxology
a prayer
morning’s light barely registers
but with a turn of the wrist light
floods the room
the shock of emerging from
a comforting womb mitigated
by socks and a puffy coat
down the stairs where with four
pushes of a button a stream
of gas and flame warm the frames
of a home whose foundations
were set well before my parents
lived and well within the years of theirs
another button and water warms
another button and beans grind
another turn of the wrist and water pours
the warm elixir finds its mark as
words from an open Book call
and draw forth songs
for the heart melodies with
ancient rhythms lost in translation
but just as real today
