I don't deserve this pen,

or the candy,

or the translucent accordions of green paper:

honking out a pitiful fanfare

as they clutter up my basket.

I don't deserve the hymns,

the sermon,

the shamefully expensive new clothes.

The eggs

are hollow;

light shines plainly—

on a Sunday, fittingly—

and the simplicity of verdant joy

shines through distant metaphors,

nonjudgmental,

nonchalant.

I'd thank you—

for the beauty of April lilies,

the splendor of a heartfelt song,

and the majesty of a perfect morning.

Then I remember:

You don't exist.

And I smile.