Blogging & Poems, My Poems, My Writing Challenges

Morning Song

 

Lackadaisical cries, and the morning
is open. Outside, the world

is still dark, but in here—through
the neighbor’s walls—I hear the earth

turning. She is small, perhaps three,
and I can imagine her in the small

purple pajamas I saw when the family
first moved in. Her hair, a spring-tide

of brown curls, bounces
the more she screams. It is nonsensical,

hardly a word, but the odd, loud cries
of birds. Then, the thud

that can be heard throughout
the house, and the quiet that impedes.

This has become the norm.

We do not speak of it, we do not
show signs of understanding.

We are quiet, and the morning simply
proceeds.

 

 

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