Mornings -- a poem

This morning I woke to Maeve's "Mom, Mom, Mom, Moooom!" (the ever-so-endearing Mama already gone?) and a sense of overwhelm that it was Monday.  But no, it wasn't Monday, and then that it was Friday and I was unprepared for writers' group, but no, it wasn't Friday.  And then as the slush of sleep fell, I woke to Wednesday -- sensible Wednesday, smack in the middle of the week.  Wednesday I could do.

Oh, to remember the joy each morning.

Welcome Morning

          Anne Sexton

There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry "hello there, Anne"
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.

All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,
dies young.