I stepped in dog shit
First thing this morning
my feet clad in slippers
And the milk
had soured in the fridge
Tea splashed with cream leaves want
But here I am
on this tender morning
With a promise of new mercies
Are they enough to assuage old worries?
Mourning doves
are seated high in the dead oak
Like spectators in a pew
Patiently waiting, observing
Be like the birds of the air he said
How does that look
for a woman who can’t fly
