The wind breathes on the curtain
and blue light slips
her slender legs in our sheets.
Layers of mornings
stacked like blankets
with the edges
peeking through return:
mornings where my feet
have long been striking down the dark
till finally blue
spills like hope over the horizon;
twenty-something mornings after
when day cracked open like a mouth,
sticky and wet;
mornings in bed with my babies,
breastfeeding and in love
with their fuzz, their translucent fingernails,
watching emotions storm across their open
brow and slouchy cheeks.
And this morning, my husband’s back
all steady breath until
our children bounce in,
tweeting in their high voices
news of the blue blue sky.
