The Morning - for Nana

The Morning

Wind is cold upon the pane; the sun invades to warm
As dew resigns its early hold upon a chill spring morn
Quilts and old clean sheets shot by dusty morning rays
Shadowed hollow closets hiding books of gone-by days

Green and turquoise plaster, paint peeling off the ceiling
Bacon on the skillet and that stomach rumble feeling
Living loaves of risen bread standing in a row
Formed by willing worn out hands below a face that knows

“There is no room in selfishness in marriage Timothy”
I swallow with the eggs and toast and humbly agree
In work there lies a hidden store to cover grief in duty
The tree, though giving fruit, is wrapped in bark against the morning

Tim Larson