Morning Prayer

At the first light of day
batter my mind with a poem the form of a mallet
and chisel my heart with another scalpel-shaped
until, bloodied but finally sane,
my soul wakes up to beauty with eyes of wonder—
that the very ground I stand on is precious like any life,
as sacred as history or romance or a family picture
or the art we behold in the texture of a fresh halved fruit
or in all the other quiet, robust parts of existence
that even poets can’t form into a poem



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