We hurry through breakfast, choosing clothes, and brushing hair
to make the morning service.
I try to control the irritation in my voice
as I implore three children,
whose hearts are squarely under the tree,
to go faster.
In my usual morning fog,
I rinse soggy bran flakes from a bowl
while our dog hunts stray Cheerios on the floor.
Through the spattered kitchen window,
between the fading shoots of the school-supplied spider plants
in their plastic-cup nurseries,
I notice a silent presence,
massive and wise,
hidden among trees
bare but for a handful of last fall’s leavings.
I see the shape of you,
the color of the sheltering branches,
and I am
watchful,
sudden witness to tiered wings
spread wide enough to cover me.