Respite
There are respites
from the awful rowing.
The brush of an infant’s hair
against my cheek,
the breath-taking beauty
of my daughter
when she first awoke,
my son’s perfect note,
Toby’s head upon my knee
in an unexpected response
from my faithful friend
to my unspoken
need for comfort,
Mom’s pink Christmas tree,
the snowflake clearly defined
against the dark green sleeve
of my woolen snowsuit,
sitting on the front steps
with Cait and Liam,
Alan’s embrace,
and, of course, the stars.
Author: Martha Ellen Johnson
Photo: Vitaly Gariev on Unsplash
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