With the greening leaves,
sit —
the worship of morning light.

Remembering my stained glass season,
how I turned away from the lovingcup
to far inside,
too far,

and now must wake again.

And bow,
and bow,
and bow,

until I can recall —
to slow and rest,
open and illuminated,

cup overflowing.

Author: Emily

i once was lost

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