Morning is surrounded in pools of light,
The kind of light that defines tranquility.
Yet my lull is not found in God’s gifts,
But rather in a different form of nature,
Grown in weeds, ripe in May.
I sit and luxuriate in my bowl of red blessings,
To which many might perceive as an “ordinary thing”.
However, the juice, a syrup of the earth, tints my lips,
As if peace were truly something grown,
Not found.
