The First Gift

to fill this unfolding day is

stillness

rising from floorboards,

seeping through mortar,

softening darkness into

presence where we are

stillness,

waking stillness,

nourishing stillness,

laboring stillness,

muscles, lungs, and dust,

for reasons morning light

can’t quite remember

until something in

grief’s corner shadow

reminds you they’re still here,

all the ones who ever loved you,

no less magnificent in

stillness

that refuses to withhold anything,

from songs sung off-key together

in your kitchen, to shoes

stacked up near the door.

When you get up,

it all still moves with you,

waking, nourishing, laboring,

as before.