Your dove-eyes spy, while sipping Earl Grey cooled by milk,
the ruby-throated hummingbird who builds her nest
with down of dandelions bound by spider’s silk—
by dawn she’s done so much and you’re not even dressed.

Between out-stretched and verdant wings of aging trees,
the sky shy-shimmers through in pieces, plum and deep.
Your brick-laid porch hosts God with cockcrow views like these,
beheld in quiet awe, while all the others sleep.

But wakeful wails will warn your work has just begun—
the soul-work mothers labor through in love and crumbs,
creating somethings out of nothings: energy and fun,
instruction, meals, routines, until the fireflies come.

For now, you drink your tea, and think how seven days
of making must have been a mess of tools and parts—
but listen—bubbled giggles rise like daybreak’s rays.
The dust-mote-dappled sunbeam almost looks like stars.

Originally published & recorded on Kevin LaTorre’s A Stylist Submits.