By Maura H. Harrison

She’s at the window—meeting morning’s first
Articulating light, a drawing dawn—
And holding berries in her hands. Her thirst
For sweetness rumbles fast, and yet she’s drawn
To give them all away, to let first fruits
Fall from her hands, an ample storehouse of
Thanksgiving for the sparrow who recruits
The day’s pursuing song, for notes above
That chime sublime, for love trembling the soul.
She holds abundance, rolls the blessings round
Her palm, and recognizes lack of want,
Absence of scarcity. She gives her whole
Harvest to God and hears the glorious sound
Of heaven overflowing mercy’s font.

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