I rise before the louder day
Has learned to clear its throat,
While dawn still keeps a modest light
And time walks soft of foot.
The kettle knows its ancient part,
The window greets the air,
And breath is drawn, and shoulders set
To meet the hours with care.
No trumpet marks the opening act,
No ledger sings my name;
The world begins with warmed-up rooms
And hands put back in place.
I choose the cloth, I light the fire,
I make the table true;
In such small acts the day is taught
What kindness ought to do.
The children wake as seedlings do,
Still tangled up with sleep;
I smooth their hair, I fasten coats,
And promises I keep.
Go forth, I say, though not in words—
The hallways know the spell:
That one may face a jagged world
If first one has been held.
When doors are shut and engines fade
And quiet claims its due,
I sit with toast and bitter tea
And think my thinking through.
The pen goes out, the piano speaks,
The needle learns its way;
I stitch coherence into hours
The world would shred to days.
They call this work a lesser thing,
A pause from being real;
As though the heart were not a craft
That must be taught to feel.
As though the steady hand at home
That tempers grief and cheer
Were not the hand that makes the world
A place one might endure.
Let others chase the distant prize
And name it high design;
I set the room, I plan the meal,
And shape the days in kind.
For joy that blooms at once and stays
Needs neither stage nor claim;
It lives where supper’s served with love
And sorrow knows its name.
This is the post I did not flee,
The charge I would not trade:
To keep the fragile human heart
From breaking in the shade.
If ever such a life seems small
To those who measure wrong,
Let them explain how worlds are made
So quietly, so long.
For empires fall by grand decree,
And markets rise and end;
But homes endure by humble acts
Repeated, till they mend.
Be First to Comment