Reading in
the morning, 

I am distracted by the light

that falls
across the page,

across the

down the wall 

as the sun rises.

Somewhere, a
neighbor’s rooster 

crows, as I carry
my little boy 

toward the bathroom where he

on sleepy legs.  Maybe that song 

is his prayer, I think, as I carry 

this boy back to his bed, fix 

pillow and blankets, 

and close
the door.

afternoon I stood 

in the kitchen cutting

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

like so many women have

This, I know, was my prayer.

Photo Credit: HERE.

Linking with Playdates with God and Unforced Rhythms

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