Piled on my parents’ quilt,

before our nightly solicitations
of Mary, the Father,
and each of our guardian angels
(to ensure all bases were covered),
we would each christen one thing
from the day that brought joy.
Petitions run dry lately,
caught somewhere between
my chest and my parched tongue,
but still I seek, each day,
to find one thing
to cup in my porous palms
and raise in gratitude,
just in case anyone is listening.
Some nights, my most earnest hope
is that I am.
And on days like today,
I treasure up as many drops as I can,
for spells when even digging
is not enough.
Thankfully, on those nights,
when I check my reservoir
there is always some
to spare.