rising in the morning to turn off the alarm
—from the old French A l’arme, meaning to
the arms, though I have hardly any weapons
but these limbs, once burnished and nearly
lovely in their prime; my wits (still for the most
part, gratefully, intact); and this all too common
yearning for ease and rest, pleasure and kind words…
Listen to the small feathered body singing in the dark,
its faltering lyric familiar as the prayer I’ll don
as armor for the day: oh faith, oh love, oh courage.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.