That First Morning

She wakes early,
Slips out of bed,
Pulls on her robe,
Slides back the drapes,
Dares herself to go downstairs
(And maybe leave
A trail of breadcrumbs)
Thick carpet underfoot,
Polished wood,
The smell of beeswax,
Front door ajar.


And once outside,
Cold dew between
Her toes that tickles,
She turns and turns and
Turns again until the grass
Falls up to meet her,
Arms crossed,
Fingertips splayed
At each shoulder
The world’s a dime
Spinning on its edge
Slows wobbling
Clatters down heads
Up just like Daddy
Last time she saw him
And he looked fast asleep.





Kevin McCann
Illustration Nick Victor

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