4 am.

The vigil hour.

My worries do no one any good.

But I must walk the tread.

The groove.

Trodden down.

The path on wooden floors.

Well worn.

What disaster will great me this morning?

What war or famine?

What fever unbroken?

What am I forgetting?

To realize in my vigil the suffering of the world.

That by naming these things

They will hold less power

Than the nameless.

That they become concrete

The problems knowable if not fixable.

And me awaken from a warm bed

By the incalculable dread.

That my holding witness to the quiet morning

The breaking of the day.

That it matters.

My worry shows I care.

I love this world.

Though I am unsure if it loves me back.

I will go in loving it anyway.