The day arrives like that before to call me from my bed, for there are needs I can't ignore and people to be fed. This repetition, Lord, and rhyme mark out my works and days; I wade through ordinary time just numbering my days. Yet sometimes in the haze of tasks, some music trills and sings beyond all blessings I could ask, O love that moves all things. A mundane moment you fill up, and I at once am fed by you, my portion and my cup; by you, my daily bread. And then my soul before you stands; my senses wake to know your grace is here beneath my hands that knead and shape the dough. The moment past, it echoes yet— the day is left to fill. I fill it, Lord, and I forget, but you are with me still.
Woman baking bread (c. 2200 BC); Louvre, Photo By Rama, CC BY-SA 3.0 fr, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=69938567
Lovely, Kate. I really enjoyed the soft sentiment throughout, but also how it's brought together by the end.
I think that for a lot of us living today, this kind of perspective gets invited in after a certain age. We stop with the chasing and the establishing, and when full routine sets in, we can either treat it as a drudgery, or see it for the gift that it is.
This is a wonderfully integrated poem, Kate. What a blessing to read it.