Author: Annette Snyckers, Memory, Mental Health, Poetry, Relationships, Spirituality

On winter mornings
it is still dark
when you get up.
I lie a little longer
watching light creep
into the room,
across the bed,
up the white wall
until it touches
the ceiling.

You bring my tea
your black coffee.
We read a while,
news of our
woeful world –
of fires of floods
of fugitives
of births and deaths
of betrayals
beheadings.

Bewildered,
I come back
into this room
now brimful
with sunshine,
in which
I am sitting –
blessed
beyond
understanding.

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