Sat, 8 November

Liturgy for the Unheld Hours Let the plates go unwashed. Let the table set itself or not at all. For the gray that asks nothing of us, we give thanks. For the window that holds its own light without permission, we give thanks. For the meal not yet planned, the bread not yet broken, the conversation still coiled in the chest like smoke before it rises— we give thanks. Let no one check the time. Let the cutlery dream in its drawer. For the sky that refuses to perform, for November doing exactly what November does, we say: enough. We say: yes. We say nothing, and that is also the prayer.