As I kneel by the bed
the words come
like the monotonous refrain of a river.
The same words as the night before and
the night before.
I reach down and
slide my fingers under my knee
to stop the itch that’s traveling
up from the carpet.
Look, my child,
I will show you the way.
But I don’t see,
I’m looking down to fix my crumpled nightgown.
Listen, my child,
I will tell you how.
But the whispered words are drowned out
by the confusion of the day’s events
still replaying in my mind.
I climb into my warm bed and roll over
to gaze out my window.
Outside the fresh, unbroken field of white
glimmers in the moonlight.
Thank you, Lord, for beauty.
I roll back over and
slide down to my knees once more,
telling my Father of my thanks.
My heart hears—
Look, my child, I will show you.
And I saw.
Listen, my child, I will tell you.
And for the first time,
kneeling with humble thanks,
I heard.