When the morning birds begin the chants
to raise the sun from its twiggy nest
I recognize the party is about to start,
an end to the hours I enjoy best, 
the dropped needle quiet of middle night
the last of the rowdies off the road,
raccoons not yet fiddling with the garbage can lid.

So many times I’ve woken in that void
and needed a moment to locate the cave wall 
in the pitch, interpret its grit,
find the guide rope to get my bearings again.

I start coffee and sit at the table 
with yesterday’s unopened mail, 
thinking of credit card offers, the news from DC, 
trying to understand how the two
are umbilically connected, thoughts put on hold
while the coffeemaker wheezes
through the last of its drip.

My father’s last morning,
struggling to breathe, forced oxygen
hissing from the pillows in his nose, 
my mother and I told him he could go.
Let go, we’ll be okay, we said. Let go. 
And he did.