the empty chair

some mornings
still bleary and yawning
I stare at the empty chair
across the kitchen table
and ask God to appear

I sit and wait for the hint
of a halo, a sudden shift
in light or condensation—
any incarnation, I’d take
the shadow of a finch
darting across
the back slats

rising for work
I catch my reflection
in the polished wood
I raise my arms to stretch
and give thanks

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