My old eyes register a darting messenger of
God's blatant, creative joy. Watch the winged
creation hover in a web of air.
Spy a sleuthing intruder
snap-tapping its way
across the wood, tunneling
away and down the outside stairs.
No expiration (yet) for hearing,
cataloguing birdvoice and the
chipclacking of breakfast
at the feeder, the squeaking
insistence at the fountain.
Teach me to number my days, Lord,
to register the ways the wind
ruffles the tablecloth in the morning's
gentle breeze, how cool, shortened
shadows signal this sea change
of a season rippling towards
quieter times.
May I live this calendar daily
not ticking the days toward the end
but aware and alive and about your
business, not counting the days, but
living into your addition, subtraction
multiplication, division, the only
math that matters.
c. Jody Lee Collins 2017
