Clumsy with Blessings: poem by Georgia Hart

Hiding Place

Early morning light peeks through the PVC blinds,

gently waking me from sleep.

I murmur, good morning,

gazing up at the ceiling with half-shut eyes—

this is all I can offer in the moment.

My lungs inflate with life at this acknowledgement.

Stretching out my hand, I find a warm tuft of fur still snoozing

Good morning to you, too.

The cat does not bother herself so much with greetings.

A stranger’s car bursts with intermittent roars

echoing on the street below,

and a quiet conversation contained in my bedroom fills the spaces between.

Realisation that the laundry should have been hung out the night before —

I take a moment to breathe in the miracle of a Tuesday morning.

Previously, I had dreamed of a morning like this:

to savour the sweet glory of the quiet mundane.

I thank God for

the breath in my lungs,

the nonchalant animal still asleep in my bed,

the evidence of life in the world outside my window,

for my heart that broke but did not harden.

The kettle boils.

I reach for the chai mix,

ignoring the sugar content boldly printed on the back.

I gaze out the kitchen window and pray out loud.

I call these my bad prayers—

my words aren’t put together enough,

and it’s mostly me spilling the depths of my fears.

Every time I admit a trespass, a hurt, a worry, I hold my breath,

waiting for a hand to strike, for fire to fall, for a back to be turned.

No rush of great waters bursts through my timber kitchen door to drown me.

Instead, I am met with overwhelming peace.

I sit cross-legged in my hiding place—

an old armchair I strategically placed next to a window—

and allow His words to bloom within me.

I feel clumsy with His blessings,

never quite knowing what to do with all this grace.

Still, He calls me to sit by His feet.

Georgia Hart is a writer based in South Australia. Her work explores faith, stillness,

and the small ways grace moves through our days.

December 2025 issue

SPIRIT FIRE REVIEW