I run boiling hot water over the floors steaming away dirt, germs, and spilled tomato sauce. They shine. In the morning, strawberry yogurt splatters and speckles the dark wood dotting our landscape with accident and mistake, and by afternoon, thousands of bread crumbs confetti the counters, tables, chairs, the bottoms of our bare feet.
Now it is evening. The joys begin to settle in the house, loosed leaves on a windless day, and I find my soul glistening in the mercies that come falling with sleep.
Autumn creeps toward us this year. The white birch
turns from green to yellow and goldens into November.
I watch the bright leaves shout to me through the front window,
and everyday for two weeks I think how I will write about it.
Now the wind comes, and well over half of the leaves
cover the ground in a splendid circular swath of color.
The wind has taken the rest: oak, maple, buckeye, plum.
I see straight through all the branches into the sky.
Lord, you know my heart before I do, for in you it has been created. You know my joy and desire, my sadness and fear, and it is you who instills in me this inclination to write it out, you who inspires my songs, my lament and my celebration.
Let your Spirit inspire me again, and always, to write what you would have me share, to describe what you would have me realize, and to explain what you would have me understand. And when my words fail, when they are disordered and poorly chosen, bless the readers so that in spite of my messy page, they will glean what you wish them to find.
In this, and in all things, my gratitude abounds.