What gleams are these: my scattered lights,
In twinkles softly spoken as with care,
What holy things: my scattered lights,
In swell to fill with praises all the air.

Slippers for my toes,
For chilly winter woes,
To banish frost with sock,
And line them as it goes.

A good laugh,
The kind that leaves your lips,
A little open in a wobble,
That reaches up past your eyes,
And smooths out your forehead,
What a gift.

The kitchen lights,
Shine brighter in dark nights,
Than warm days and gentle noons,
They beam and blast,
Great rays at the dark,
And seem to make the dark night small,
And hide in shadows cast.