Some cold juice from a pitcher before dawn,
The waking morning as I draw the door,
The paper damp with dew from our front lawn,
Returning footsteps wet upon the floor.
An hour as the print meets my mind’s mist,
Then back roads to the schoolroom, where the day
With joy sees age cajole and youth resist,
And later home by sunset’s final ray.
Our hands joined at the table as we dine,
A warm cup in a soft chair by the fire,
Some anguished verse extended by one line,
A diary’s leaf to paint, then I retire.
These graces live mere moments of each day
While timeless grace and moment with me stay.

Photo credit: Juan Pablo Serrano Arenas