It had never been so clear as it was
this morning as I sat with my mother in the kitchen—
the sun glinting through the window,
lighting the soft gray clouds,
kissing the last remaining bits of orange
hanging sleepily from the trees outside—
is not something you find
under the roof of a church.
Nor does it linger just
atop any mountain that asks
for days to summit.
It is much more commonplace than that.
It reflects off the soup pot
soaking in the kitchen sink,
it sings from the radio speaker,
from the pages of a book,
from your own voice
if softly, you hum along,
the notes in your chest becoming a small sort