Ritual for daily rendering

Here are the nights
where we practice for
the unforeseeable—

shallow basket of fruit the shade
of nightingales’ breasts, screens
alive with the quiet rustling

of ferns. The remnants of a meal
lie on the table; so too the dregs
in glasses smudged with fingerprints.

Every morning we brace for the winds
of the unpredictable: some new
wound, some fresh sorrow.

To draw the curtain aside, to wash
the face with cold water: such are
our small prayers for benevolence.


In response to Via Negativa: Conversion.

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