Early in the morning, you wash.
The water spills over your hands like a prayer
and washes away the dirt from the day before.
A simple ritual, and you savor every motion,
the coolness of the water on your hands,
the foaming of the soap,
the rinsing of it all at the end.
the sense of being new,
if only for this moment,
if only for today.
About this poem
Grace is not a momentary thing. It is constantly renewed, and that is part of its magic.