Sounds of Morning

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SOUNDS OF MORNING


A diaper swish as she shifts

positions, the creak of the crib. 


The house too, stiff, decides it’s time 

to readjust itself—under plaster a ceiling 


joint pops, and my knees as I lumber

from the bedroom. The dog’s nails patter


on hardwood like raindrops, then stop

as he sizes up the couch, jumps, 


curls up with a little grunt to let me know

he’s landed. Silence now. No


voice dewing down to which I might

reply with Samuel, Here I am, no quiet


sense of presence on which I too might

settle in with a contented sigh. 


It's this I’m here for each morning,

listening. Not to hear anything, 


but to sit in the absence long enough 

to convince myself a part of me is deaf.


That way I can say, sorry, I didn't hear you,

Lord, which I need to be true.

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