Poem By Val Morehouse
Bare feet carry that first cup of
morning to you full of night’s
disagreement black and
bitter without sweet apology.
That is the way it should be.
Truth that you drink in and return to
me empty of sleep’s confusion,
but filled with possibility,
it’s steam evaporated by the sweat
of forgiveness worked smooth
as new bread that bubbles and rises,
cupping the darkness inside its white gift.