© ISTOCKPHOTO/THINKSTOCK
Even before the horizon hints of a blush
or the early finch pierces the silence,
before I steal my first peek at the day
He is come!
His voice—the very first, before
the others stir—whispers to me just
whose son I am, and why only
good is in store for today.
He’s my song in the shower, my patience
when my son sleeps late; the loving guide
for the hand
that butters the toast.
Oh sure, those other voices eventually wake
to begin foretelling rain. But too late.
As I lift my gaze skyward,
not even a cloud dares spoil this peace.
