Make my ears new
or I might wake,
a pillow molded over my head,
oblivious to You.
Lean toward me
as I talk with my children.
Pull close.
I can almost tell it’s You.
Those two parents on the playground
grumbling, the rude barrista—
I know they’re hoarding
secret notes You’ve sent.
My eyes scrutinize
grumpy faces.
Yell, if You have to,
but let me hear.
Every day
I need to know You’ve come.