Red-and-white checkered tablecloth level with my knees,
Granola in one hand and spoon in the other.
Still-rising, the sun's too low to warm the morning breeze
Making my seven-year-old shiver as he takes another
Mouthful of colorful fruit-flavored rings.
His hair, uncombed and lit to a glow, caught my eye,
Drew me from the kitchen table to this tiny one.
He watches the waving long-needled pines. So do I,
Sometimes turning to ask him another question
About what the coming school day brings.
Within an hour, the deck will be in shadow.
Though I'll be at work, he, at school, I know
This particular angle of sunlight, the morning's still,
Will linger, warming my heart despite the chill.
No comments:
Post a Comment