L U M I N A * N O S T R I

  Time to Sing Birds, even the small ones, don’t trouble themselves with all night vigils. They do not squawk through the night desperate for light’s return. Their instincts, their ancestors, their senses, sinews are so well fortified to believe  the word harmonizes with to know. With divine precision,  every morning, one starts “Sing in the dark, just so just so. Light will come, I know.” Such a song begets light; like the birds Let us beckon our dawn. 

  Some Parents Wake up early to pack lunches. This parent wakes up early to write poems. Some people hustle through the shower, the morning chores, to score on perfect mornings a few quiet moments to drink their protein shake while they check the ESPN app in  the quiet dark.  This person starts all leisure, saves the hustle for later. Let’s her coffee grow cold whiles she is surfing the web of her thoughts. Her only morning “chores” before the kids are up: are toast, warm beverage, pen, pages, poem. It must look the same to them at first when the kids are up: A parents face in the glow of this blue light at dawn. But what comes next looks so completely different: both flawed, perfection shattered,  giving way to the unique kaleidoscope  the kids might call “home.