it’s nearly eight a.m.
and i rise to the chirping
of the birds and
the sun peaking in
through the window.
when my son rises, too,
i play music, softly,
brew a pot of coffee,
and together, we make
a quiche (he laughs
at the gooeyness of
the eggs, and while
he does the cheese,
i chop the bacon
and onions because
i can’t let him
get hurt). the morning
is beautiful.

it’s ten, and i wake
by myself. i turn a
lone light on and make
oatmeal. the house is
quiet and a loneliness
hangs in the air, but
there is something about
this morning (the storm
clouds in the distance?)
that is beautiful,