The early morning light hits the floorboards
and the rocking chair.
Columbine and anemone,
freshly picked,
cascade from their vase,
shocking purple and yellow,
and those colors
draw me to them,
as if peace and balance reside
within a small gathering of pretty shapes.

Maybe I won’t make
anything
of my life
as one more morning
calls me to kitchen and breakfast,
the oatmeal boiling on the stove,
the girls,
happy that maple syrup
sweetens their bowls,
the not-rushing of ritual.
As the sun tells me
the morning is getting on,
I look out the window
at the golden reds of the last leaves,
heralding colder days,
blankets to be taken out
and storm windows to be lowered,
and other flowers,
the paperwhites on the table, growing,
as the girls point out
that miracle of stems
reaching skyward
and those tiny buds showing
through.

And what if this is all there is?
The sun which slants across the house,
my presence which slants across my children,
as I hear words from my mother
pass from me to them.
And what if this is all there is?
A tidy kitchen,
the pull and tug of who I am
and who they are,
the sun careening every day
into and through our lives.