Before earth uncovers sun,
I hear small feet and giggles,
the clutch of kids waking,
crowing for morning’s warmth.
Before day moves night aside,
I hear husband’s solid breathing,
the laborer still resting,
soaking up time’s ease.
Before life lights up,
I hear myself move toward standing,
the tenderer, brewing and baking,
filling little bellies, big hearts.
After earth covers sun,
after night moves day aside,
after life dims to dusk,
we remain each other’s orbit, the gravity of love.
“Mama, Mama, Mama.”
They call like newborn birds.
They scramble to get to my criss-crossed lap.
They throw silky arms about my neck, downy feathers in the breeze.
I stop what I am doing, what I’ve not yet begun,
with an eye to future’s empty nest, my raising work all done.
Bits of hurried meals scatter beneath the table:
sauced penne, broccoli, bread, chocolate covered raisins.
Strands of hair fall unheard across the rooms:
brown and blonde, long and not-so-long.
Art implements cover all horizontal planes:
crayons (the floors), markers (the chairs), papers and pencils (the tables).
Everywhere my eyes see shreds, scraps, and specks.
I should try something different.
Look up, perhaps.
Look forward, even.
Try drumming the cello instead of bowing it.