This is the time I feel closest to the page

This time is the time I feel closest to the page;

here, at this table, with a warm cup of coffee,

now, in the wee hours, dark all around me,

sun not ready to peak over the ridge for several hours,

children still tucked into bed, silent for these

few hours. Silence. Golden. Shimmering. Silver-plated.

Polished. Vibrant. In a few more minutes, there will

be shrieking at regular intervals. Right now there is only

the steady hum of the refrigerator, the tapping of my own

fingers on the keys, an alarm going off in a distant room.

Soon, then, the day will begin. The feeding of animals,

the bottles for baby goats, chicken feed, and hog slop.

Holding babies as they drink from my hand is one of

the best parts of the day, to nourish and hold dear,

to carry in my arms these wee ones. Around here, wee

is the pattern of the day. Tiny kittens, bunnies, chicks.

This is the time I feel closest to the page, before chores

begin, before another living soul is awake, save

the dog, whose tail beats the outside of the kitchen wall

with a steady thwap, thwap, thwap, letting me know he loves me.

And there begins the rooster, and the second alarm.

Here, we go. The first hug of morning.

I am participating in NaWriPoMo, although not always following the prompts.

photo from here