That First Morning


Written by Kevin Patrick McCann


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.


Text © Kevin Patrick McCann



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