POETRY
Morning — III
Motherhood mornings begin with breakfast.
Sometimes, they also begin with rain,
the slow patter of drops on the patio
echo the pitter of little feet
on their way to being fully grown.
They run the long gauntlet hall of time.
The harshest governor is time,
hurrying them to choke down breakfast,
a driving taskmaster towards growth,
while their hearts long to watch the rain
who trails with leisured, measured feet
a meandering rivulet path across the patio.
Just as the plants, snug in pots on the patio,
follow instinctive patterns through time,
so also on strictly measured feet
they obey the rhythm that begins with breakfast,
venturing out into the rain
where burgeoning knowledge is grown.
The house, the incubator of growth,
channeling routine and traditions, pieced together like flags on the patio.
As the day expands to flex its reign
over them, they respond in time,
rousing from their dreams to break the…
