Most gifts in this life come to us through glances back, through windows of time.
Like Sweet Summer mornings —
Dew-pressed grass.
Sundays spent on the lake, with sunshine beaming so thick it lingers on the backs of my shoulders.
Coming back home to a half-drowsy shower,
and my best friend’s warm bed.
Good fortune lies in slow evenings.
Conversation with steel-hearted friends
wrapped in a dim living room,
feelings and futures as spread out as the paint supplies sprawled on the floor. —
Lord, how lucky are we?
Sure, great things come in grand gestures,
but the finest grit settles in the soul.
