A few years ago, Dan and Molly gave me Garrison Keillor’s anthology of “Good Poems”.  That was the first book of poetry that I really loved.  Later, I found “Good Poems for Hard Times”.  The past few weeks, I have not been able to put it down.  One of my favorites is written by Barbara Crooker.  I love it because I know that the most deeply satisfying moments of motherhood for me are days “when nothing happened”.  One of my children read this and said, “But that’s not ordinary life.”  Ok. Good point.  Most days at our house involve pokes, bickering, lost gloves, etc.  But every now and then, in the “hard, cold knuckle of the year”, we are given such an unexpected gift.

Ordinary Life

Today was a day when nothing happened,
the children went off to school
without a murmur, remembering
their books, lunches, gloves.
All morning, the baby and I built block stacks
in the squares of light on the floor.
And lunch blended into naptime,
I cleaned out kitchen cupboards,
one of those jobs that never gets done,
then sat in a circle of sunlight
and drank ginger tea,
watched the birds at the feeder
jostle over lunch’s little scraps.
A pheasant strutted form the hedgerow,
preened and flashed his jeweled head.
Now a chicken roasts in the pan,
and the children return,
the murmur of their stories dappling the air.
I peel carrots and potatoes without paring my thumb.
We listen together for your wheels on the drive.
Grace before bread.
And at the table, actual conversation,
no bickering or pokes.
And then, the drift into homework.
The baby goes to his cars, drives them
along the sofa’s ridges and hills.
Leaning by the counter, we steal a long slow kiss,
tasting of coffee and cream.
The chicken’s diminished to skin &skeleton,
the moon to a comma, a sliver of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the hard cold knuckle of the year,
a day that unwrapped itself
like an unexpected gift,
and the stars turn on,
order themselves
into the winter night.