Housemother, house, mother,
in thine devotions, to nurture, nature,
secure daily, the succour of this foregathering.
Gau, our fullness together, that we taste only truth.
Purity in our homes wherein
family, children, thrive.
Intent on eternal creation,
sour not our daily rhythm, flow.
The ready splash of milk
on cereal bowls.
That wake up sound,
floats, and meatwagons . . .
Best beast, bringing ust o solidarity, ringing in the changes
in our people, the questions
of your muted questions, our lies, lives.
Your eyes give life, to life.
Yet death in our sensitivity brings ends,
that cannot be undone,
by further asleep deeds of our unawakened mournings.
The steady, securing, of the pen without relent,
pulling of milk away, and awry falling.
Our beautiful creation,
come home, in our prayers.