A new poem

Sarah Skwire

This is my church: This bed where we make love,
and sleep, and rest when we are suffering or sick.
where we have brought two children into life
and where we find our respite from the world.

This bath is holy too, for time alone
with books or body, lounging in the tub,
for purity, and for hilarity
when children wash and splash in giggling flood.

The kitchen: Here we make the daily meals
and break the bread or cheerios at need.
We brew our beer and harvest all the good
brought from the garden, earned while on our knees.

This is my daily prayer: The mortgage paid
the garden in, weeds pulled, the lawn well mown,
the plumbing running clear. And every night
the quiet house. And every dawn, the sun.

Underrated: Abroad

The ravenous longing for the infinite possibilities of “otherwhere”

The king of cakes

"Yuletide revels were designed to see you through the dark days — and how dark they seem today"