I pull the shades against the sunlight, that I may remain blind to the disorder growing in the corners of my rooms. For gotten debris sits in small piles. The air is unmoving.
Walking under your bright skies, I present a healthy face to the world. Back home, I allow rot to grow.
Lord! This morning I will throw open the shutters, that your sunshine may pour in. Fresh air will circulate and inside will match outside.
Fresh air, Lord, that is today’s gift. Blow through my rooms.