Pleasure in minutes, moments, even morsels.
Pleasantries in teas.
Traveling to get the tea.
The halo of a street light on the way there.
The scent of the tea brewing.
That first sacred sip.
They push me through, past a deep nothing into wonderment.
I don’t wake when I should, so I stare and glory at a lamp.
My prayers are written in careful neat writing to all that is ordinary.
My shelves are tidy.
My hats are where they “should” be.
Tiny victories.
Invisible battles won.
Seeing the good.
I seek out  possibility.
I hold on to her fast.
I raise her from the dead when no light exists.
Every night requires incantation.
When my heart beats and I sweat, praying for sleep.
Sick with anxiety. Riddled with failure.
Dying for a rhythm that allows me to speak a language with those that walk illuminated by her light.
Me a mere shadow looming large
May I always find sanctuary in the simple