• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 04
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Every Morning

High summer
The impossible green of the cottonwoods
The bright sweep of the sky
I see God's hand
The cup of our joy overflows then
With solemn gravity
Into toil
Bright mornings
In their sacred starts
Point in one sweating direction
The north of work
The north of prudence
The north of thrift
The north of faith rewarded
Or grace withheld