My days are measured in stacks of clothes and dishes,
morning passing into night through plates of food and containers of water.
I remember yesterday in the deliciousness of re-warmed stew;
I see the future in little pajama-shirts I will never fold again.
My children’s days are measured in the cards they will play
and the apple crisp they will enjoy – what they will get to do before bedtime –
not often in what they have done, rarely in what they are doing.
Questions: “When it’s time…?” Declarations: “When I’m older….”
My God’s days are measured in gifts of love,
sacrifices of sleep, of time, of self.
Beyond even the certainty of sunrise,
he packs together, shakes down, overflows.