Tuesday, June 12, 2018

It is bedtime.

It is bedtime
and his lap is full of our girls
and they are laughing and choosing
Shel Silverstein poems one by one
as the golden hour summer sunlight
streaks down the hall.
Our hearts and tummies are full from
dinner and bike rides
and I decide right then that
I will remember this moment
when things are hard.
When they are maybe scanning me for sickness some day decades from now
or I am heartsick over a catastrophic loss
or I feel I can't go on.
I hope I close my eyes and
see the streaks of golden light
and the smiles on their faces
and the closeness of their bodies
and I that I will still consider the pain of life
and all we must endure
to be an adequate trade
for this flash of pure joy.




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