Now you bless me
with song, bless this
laundry at my feet—
your forewing fiddle bowing
that one sweet note.
Acheta domesticus, your name
a prayer, these cool
basement walls our cathedral.

Here we are, doing
the work we have
been given to do,
going in peace to
love and serve our
world. Tonight that means
folding shirts, warm from
the dryer, while you
play forth with plectrum
your song of praise.

Tomorrow, those we love
may leave us and
we will need a
new way to pray.
So take your rest,
friend. But first, bless
me again, while you
still know the tune.