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Ready to Listen: A Reflective Plea



Each morning when the alarm sounds

and my eyes open, still tired

darkness covering the four walls—

but light striving to peek through

and force itself on me—

I can’t quite see you or

even myself, but

I’m ready to listen.


I check in, first thing as I quiet the fan

and lie still in the silence.

I speak to you, sometimes in haste,

other times in half-thoughts

interrupted by the shuffling feet of my kids

and the dog’s prancing nails outside the door.

It’s early and I’m not an early person but

I’m ready to listen.


There’s no other way to prepare for the day

or muster up the strength to rise, is there?

I throw off the covers, already warm

and although I’ve spoken

into the morning haze, I’m quiet now and

I’m ready to listen.


My feet touch the cool of the floor as

I move about in the dark,

barely able to see but

I know this place well enough to

navigate without much light. Momentarily,

my hands will touch the cool of the water.

The collective drops baptize me long enough to

undo my slumber. Then they

regroup, move on, return to the sea and

leave me awake.

Would you speak?

I’m ready to listen, God.

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