Monday, January 3, 2022

A box canyon.

A blank wall.

The seed eaten, just five grains of rye remain.

Hungry rabbits eye the granary.

Lord, miracles will descend. Where there was no way, there will be a way. Bounty will overflow.

These trials, this hunger, will fade. Let me be grateful already, this morning, for the afternoon’s gifts.

(Letter #2,550)