Tired Bed

Morning light grows to sound,  

peppered feet on the ground—  

your brothers,  

quickly gathered around.  


A triumphant thump;  

crowded in bed,  

good-morning-bumps  

eclipsing her head.  


The tangle of laughter,  

this music of four—  

Our ever after;  

this is the core.  


“What are we doing today?”  

he asks in his way,  

words I hear coming  

before he can say.  


Cooking is certain:  

laundry and dishes—  

but truly, we dwell  

in my deepest of wishes:  


These three little heads  

over hot buttered bread,  

wandering, marveling  

where wonder has led.  


The magic of childhood,  

from this tired bed,  

reaching toward all that  

still waits just ahead.