Make my ears new

or I might wake,

a pillow molded over my head,

oblivious to You.

Lean toward me

as I talk with my children.

Pull close.

I can almost tell it’s You.

Those two parents on the playground

grumbling, the rude barrista—

I know they’re hoarding

secret notes You’ve sent.

My eyes scrutinize

grumpy faces.

Yell, if You have to,

but let me hear.

Every day

I need to know You’ve come.