What wondrous kindling does make,
A contrite heart and budding love,
A muttered and exalted prayer,
On weary and impassioned lips,
With weak men You, Lord, level hills,
With killers You make merry saints,
With paupers You do shepherd kings,
We long to see what You will do with us!

A table to share,
Plated up with kind food,
Now surrounded in care,
What a notable mood.

Packing up my clothes,
So easy that it drew a sweat,
I pile on hope on hope I haven't
Forgotten yet a thing but check
Twice thrice and tick it off for sure.

Head scratching,
Splayed fingers drawing lines in tied up hair,
Individual artists sculpting messy plumes,
And splashing patted-down paints,
Their art just seems to...
How to put it...
Scratch the itch?