I do not come into this home as an invader,
Arms piled high with boxes
To weigh the floorboards down
Beneath the oppressive yoke of my material existence.
Instead, I come with a gentle touch,
Slowly accommodating the shape of my presence
To the shape of the space
Through tactile intimacy: one
Window sill and one cabinet door
At a time, cleaning
As my grandmother would have cleaned:
All of it, thoroughly, as though
To prepare communion
For the moment to come
When lives are brought together into one life.
*Sabbath poems are a Wendell Berry thing, but I like the idea, so thanks to the master and all credit where credit is due as far as that goes.