collided with Aaron Shust’s song of hope
through the last morning stoplights.
Five solid hours of filing, yet unfinished
slammed into belly laughs with coworkers.
Lost pens, dropped calls, software crashes
melted away with the first bite
of peach pie, nuanced with nutmeg:
my caring sister’s sweet surprise.
A forgotten payment, still on the counter
rear-ended my stolen reading minutes
but didn’t sour the apple cider tea party
I promised my daughter two days ago.
Our teacups’ tiny clinks whispered calm.
Bluegill fried crisp from our own pond
compensated for charred rice and soggy broccoli.
One spread of hand-washed dishes
shushed the pervasive chaos.
Disrespectful words before bed
dissipated as I breathed practice notes
in my flute to old praise hymns.
Isaiah’s vision in my daily verses
rerouted my thoughts
to this morning’s song:
My hope is in You, Lord.