First Light
By
Your dove-eyes spy, while sipping Earl Grey cooled by milk, the ruby-throated hummingbird who builds her nest with down of dandelions bound by spider's silk— by dawn she's done so much and you're not even dressed. Between out-stretched and verdant wings of aging trees, the sky shy-shimmers through in pieces, plum and deep. Your brick-laid porch hosts God with cockcrow views like these, beheld in quiet awe, while all the others sleep. But wakeful wails will warn your work has just begun— the soul-work mothers labor through in love and crumbs, creating somethings out of nothings: energy and fun, instruction, meals, routines, until the fireflies come. For now, you drink your tea, and think how seven days of making must have been a mess of tools and parts— but listen—bubbled giggles rise like daybreak's rays. The dust-mote-dappled sunbeam almost looks like stars.
Grace is a poet I had the pleasure of hearing read live a little while ago. Her portfolio of poems is as delightful as “First Light,” trust me.
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