Poetry

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The first of October—
light breaks across the window
like mercy new each morning,
a psalm whispered through the glass.

The garden waits in silence,
its soil baptized by night rain,
each drop a reminder
that His word does not return void.

Sun and shadow wrestle,
but even their quarrel
is held within His hand—
cloud and flame, pillar and promise.

The kettle trills,
steam rising like prayer,
while I recall:
“Be still and know that I am God.”

Perhaps the afternoon
will open in brightness,
perhaps not—
yet even in the shifting sky
I see His faithfulness,
and call it blessing.



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