Sat, 24 January

Liturgy of the Amber Hours For the table that holds without asking. For the cloth smoothed by the same hand, week after week. For the rain that makes the glass a second skin. We give thanks for the ordinary heat: the dish passed left, the bread broken without ceremony, the glass refilled before it empties. For the green threshold between storm and shelter, where cold becomes almost-warm, where almost-warm becomes someone saying your name. We give thanks for accumulation: Saturday over Saturday, layer over layer, until the ritual is thicker than memory, until the table is heavier than the house. For the rain that does not stop. For the window that holds. For the gold that answers the grey without explanation, without apology, only with presence. Let us remain. Let us remain. Let the light do what light does.