This morning I am grateful for the same black tea,
these same long arms that slip into the same long sleeves,
these same eyes that don’t want to open at five
when the small girl does her same early cry.
I don’t tire of the same sunshine that slips
its gold language on my same wood floor, nor do I wish
in this instant for anything more than these same geese
that land in our same pond each spring with their same honking,
honking, honking, honking. Grateful for the same
not knowingness. Grateful for the same low hum
that always seems to come to my lips on mornings like this
when change is in the air, same as it ever is.