Hickory Pit, Saturday,9 Am

Beloved God, I thank You for
this symphony of breakfast,

for the coffee
You have poured
straight into my cup
from Central American highlands,
Hawaiian sugar fields,
and some California cow;

for the oatmeal pressed from grain
waving somewhere in our country,
and butter maybe from a friend
of that same cow, and raisins
from down Fresno way,

and for the scrambled eggwhites,
free of wicked yolks,
but yellow just the same,

all an expression
of Your Divine Perfection.
Help me see for once
that same Perfection
in the rest of my day,
Amen.