Ordinary Life

Ordi­nary Life
–Bar­bara Crooker

This was a day when noth­ing happened,
the chil­dren went off to school
with­out a mur­mur, remembering
their books, lunch­es, gloves.
All morn­ing, the baby and I built block stacks
in the squares of light on the floor.
And lunch blend­ed into naptime,
I cleaned out kitchen cupboards,
one of those jobs that nev­er gets done,
then sat in a cir­cle of sunlight
and drank gin­ger tea,
watched the birds at the feeder
jos­tle over lunch’s lit­tle scraps.
A pheas­ant strut­ted from the hedgerow,
preened and flashed his jew­eled head.
Now a chick­en roasts in the pan,
and the chil­dren return,
the mur­mur of their sto­ries dap­pling the air.
I peel car­rots and pota­toes with­out par­ing my thumb.
We lis­ten togeth­er for your wheels on the drive.
Grace before bread.
And at the table, actu­al conversation,
no bick­er­ing or pokes.
And then, the drift into homework.
The baby goes to his cars, dri­ves them
along the sofa’s ridges and hills.
Lean­ing by the counter, we steal a long slow kiss,
tast­ing of cof­fee and cream.
The chick­en’s dimin­ished to skin & skeleton,
the moon to a com­ma, a sliv­er of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the hard cold knuck­le of the year,
a day that unwrapped itself
like an unex­pect­ed gift,
and the stars turn on,
order themselves
into the win­ter night.

Cyn is a proud Mommy & Mémé, professional geek, avid reader, fledgling coder, enthusiastic gamer (TTRPGs), occasional singer, and devoted stitcher.
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