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.