The quiet place
before the clank, bang, rattle of my fatherÂ
putting away the dishes in Tetris piles,
making tea
the wooden cupboard bangs close,
convincing my eyes to do what they’ve already known,
open, awake
a bit of resentment boils up-
doesn’t he know I’m asleep
(I’m not)
the kettle steams,
his feet fall muffled as he moves across the kitchen
I can hear the warmth of old slippers
sliding across wood panels,
the stove lights,
he fumbles a plate,
adjusts with a deep sigh
(he tries not to wake me)
the light has not cracked the horizon
and frost clings to the frozen new green tendril
of grass desperately pushing out of hard winter ground;
it cannot be stopped in the pre-dawn,
wake up it says,
life is here.
Janessa Wells is a poet living in Central Oregon