Reading in the morning,
I am distracted by the light
that falls across the page,
across the room,
climbing down the wall
as the sun rises.
Somewhere, a neighbor’s rooster
crows, as I carry my little boy
toward the bathroom where he stands
on sleepy legs. Maybe that song
is his prayer, I think, as I carry
this boy back to his bed, fix
the pillow and blankets,
and close the door.
Yesterday afternoon I stood
in the kitchen cutting potatoes,
eggs, cucumbers and onion and paused
to call my husband, because
of the way the room was lit through
the windows, the way the ceiling fan spun,
fresh, the way I stood, happy
and content in a farm house kitchen
like so many women have before.
This, I know, was my prayer.
Photo Credit: HERE.